


Coldsnap - Summer Snows

by Malkuthe



Series: Coldsnap [2]
Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bondage, Brutality, Chastity Device, Derogatory Language, Dreams, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Gay Parents, Gay Sex, Injury Recovery, Language Barrier, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent Death, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Religious Conflict, Rope Bondage, Sibling Incest, Stargazing, Tenderness, Torture, Unrequited Love, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 244,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malkuthe/pseuds/Malkuthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unassuming farmboy, on the day he buries the last of his two fathers, meets an eldritch creature, with authority unrestrained over Winter, who is an exile prince of a faraway land. Together they foster trust, build a friendship, and eventually, nurture a blossoming romance in the summer heat... Yet little do they know that their meeting has set into motion events that will plunge them into the heart of a storm that threatens to sweep away the world, and everything they hold dear with it. They must protect their home, their love, and everything they've ever known from the coming summer snows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fair Folk

**Author's Note:**

> Fair bit of warning, this story may serve to trigger a lot of things. There is non-con and torture of the most disturbing variety, so, if you are squeamish, it may not be the story for you. However, if you like lots of angst and the thrill of reading a story that does not promise a happy ending, then you will be in for a treat, I hope.
> 
> Make sure to leave a comment if you like the story! I would love to see some constructive feedback or generally just hearing from you guys. It would be a big boost to my motivation to finish this story if you do. :D

_The day was beautiful as any, yet its shoulders carried melancholy heavier than mountains._

The sun, a brass disc set on a canvas of gentlest blue, shed its brazen light upon fields of rippling grass dancing to the music of the wind as it blew through the trees. Spring had come, and with it new life painted the earth, laid bare by winter, green and droplets of dew that clung to the swaying blades of grass shimmered in the morning light. One young man felt the bright sun on his back. He felt its warmth and but little of the comfort it brought to many people. He felt the cool caress of the wind and the pleasant rustling of the leaves as the breeze meandered through the nearby foliage, yet all this, the earth's grandeur, was lost on him. His world was in the sweat on his brow, in the ache in his arms, in the shovels of dirt that he tossed into the ditch in front of him.

Frost, the young man mused. Jack Frost, his parents had called him. Frost like the breaths that had passed his lips. Frost like the intricate latticework of ice that laid on the ground when they'd found him. Frost like the white that blossomed in the cracks of treebark, in the boughs of trees, and on the blades of grass. His parents, they told him, had always wanted a child. The gods they'd thought had abandoned them, it seemed, had answered their supplications.  
  
Yet Jack had never truly felt entirely at home in their quaint farmstead. He'd never quite felt like he belonged. He'd loved the two very dearly, but he always wondered what his life was like before they'd found him. He always wondered if his true parents had died, if they'd lost him, or truly, if they'd abandoned him. Many times he'd asked the farmer and his husband, but neither of them genuinely knew.  
  
All that the two farmers -- outsiders like Jack himself -- knew was that they'd found him out by the woods one day during the first frost of autumn. It was as though by some divine providence that they'd heard the faint cries of the child. Jack, he'd been told, was certainly worse for wear and looked to be on the brink of death. They'd taken him in, clothed him, fed him, warmed him and bathed the dirt and grime off of him. They'd considered him their own flesh and blood, and rightly so. He'd grow up to be like them in his proclivities. He'd grow up to be like them -- exiled and ostracised by society at large for wanting the love of another man.  
  
 _Thud._  Jack straightened as he tossed another shovelful of dirt on the casket in the ground. Dirt and pebbles rained down on the rough-hewn wood. They scratched the casket and thudded on it, making it sound as though whoever lay within was struggling to get out. Jack knew better.  _Thud._  The last of the only family he'd known since he could remember, dead. He couldn't help the tears that spilled from his eyes, the quiver that danced upon his lower lip. _Thud._  Alone now, and probably until his own death, Jack felt truly terrified of what lay ahead.  
  
Jack tossed the shovel to the side when the grisly deed was done. Its old, heavy blade was caked with soil and moist with dew. He'd cleaned it earlier, before he began to dig the grave. Jack felt obliged enough to his father that he didn't want to dig his final resting place with a shovel that had only yesterday been used to scoop up horse shit. He fell to his knees. The soil shifted around him and a sigh escaped his lips. With his fingers he shaped a small hole in the dirt and fished an acorn from his pocket. He dropped the seed into it and almost reverently closed the earth over it.  
  
The young man glanced to his side. An oak sapling rose from the ground there. For his fathers had been inseparable in life, Jack felt that they deserved to be inseparable in death as well. The trees would grow. Their roots would reach down and drink of his fathers' essences while their branches would reach for the skies and entwine with each other. These oak trees would be together even when Jack himself was dead, locked in a tender embrace that would last centuries, dancing every so often to the fickle will of the wind.  
  
Jack knelt in the soft earth. He did not care if his breeches got dirty. Life at a farm was dirty business to begin with. He looked at the tiny mound of earth he'd formed above the acorn in front of him. He glanced at the sapling that grew on his other father's grave. He fancied the thought that somehow the plants represented the love they'd shared with each other. How their love had grown and blossomed from something so tiny and fragile in a world that wanted nothing more than to quash it into something tall, firm and strong.  
  
Jack wanted that. He wanted that kind of love, but his fathers had always told him that almost everyone frowns upon it. When their old painter friend had died and stopped coming out to the farm, the two had almost entirely withdrawn from the world. His father Nyko stopped going to town, merely trading with nearby farms for needed supplies. "The world out there--" they would often tell him with this palpable look of despair and weariness in their eyes "--hates people like us."  
  
Jack's dad would push a bony finger at his chest. "So keep it in here, Jack" he would say. In the corner Nyko would shake his head and look out the window. Jack often caught him expelling air from his lungs in a long drawn-out sigh. "Don't show them what you are. Because they  _will_  kill you for it." Jack had not noticed it then, but Nyko always turned away from Jack after saying those words. He was wiping the tears from his eyes and hiding the fury and sadness that were in them.  
  
Whenever they talked about the outside world, Jack could hear fear in his fathers' voices. They'd lived long lives. They'd lived hard lives. It was a wonder they'd ever survived out on the farm. From what they'd told him, Jack knew that they had lived out on the farm since they were twenty, having never lived outside of their hometown before that. They'd taken care of themselves. They used the plants in the nearby woods for medicine. They ate of the fields they toiled in.  
  
While his parents were happy, and Jack knew deep in his heart that they were, there always seemed to be dark clouds hanging over them. Remnants of a not-so-happy past that still haunted them to the day. Nyko would never agree to visit the barn. Kyle refused to handle the horses. They made do, but Jack always wondered  _why_. When he was young he would every so often hear Kyle wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Nyko soothed him, and for some reason, the words lulled Jack to sleep too.  
  
It wasn't until he was much older that Jack realized that his parents, the men he'd idolized since he was just learning to milk a cow, weren't as strong as they liked to show him. He began to notice it when Kyle would tremble whenever he handled a knife. He saw it in the way Nyko would warily look into the house before entering. They were broken people, he realized. Much like himself. But they completed each other. They fixed each other. They helped each other remain whole.  
  
Jack wanted that. Jack envied that bond that they possessed. But if his parents were right, and they'd never lied to him, he'd probably never find that. He knelt on the ground. His shoulders shook. Tears rolled down his face. He sniffed. He was alone now. He was probably going to be alone until the end of his days. He already missed his fathers. He wanted them to be back. He didn't want to be alone.  
  
In his mind's eye, Jack saw the farmstead derelict. The oak trees outside strong and tall, with branches that reached high into the heavens, lending shade to the earth below. The house itself was broken down, owing its deplorable condition to years of neglect. Nature was beginning to take back what rightfully belonged to it. The shutters were gone. Grass shot through the floorboards. All manner of flora and fauna had wound itself into the place.  
  
Within, sprawled by the remains of what was once the table in the kitchen, was a pile of bones. It was Jack. There he'd fallen, victim of the onslaught of the years, unable to get up. The brunet imagined a weary traveler stumbling upon the home, searching for some shelter after weeks in the wilderness. What if that traveler was the man meant to love Jack, only sent by the gods far too late?  
  
The sun was directly overhead by the time Jack was able to rise. He'd cried all he could. The tears wouldn't come anymore. He felt alone. He felt empty. But if anything, he knew he couldn't just stop. Life on the farm had never been easy, much less luxurious. It was hard work. And if anything, it required constant effort. If he was to eke out a living on his own, he would have to work for it. Life on the farm never stopped, he mused.  
  
Jack placed his fingers to his lips and whistled a high-pitched four-note tune. Almost instantly he felt a small head bump against his calf. Jack got down on his haunches. The snowy ball of fur reared up and licked his face, leaving a trail of dog slobber down his cheek. "Hey Glaise. Didn't realize you were there." Jack smiled tenderly at his dog. His last remaining companion on the farm. "We've got work to do today, boy." The dog yipped at him but refused to leave his side. Glaise's tail did not wag quite as exuberantly as it normally did either. The dog probably sensed his master's pain and wanted to help.  
  
"Alright. Alright--" Jack straightened "--let's get today's work over with." The dog ran around his legs and barked up at him before shooting off towards the barn. The young man glanced at his parents' graves and sighed before jogging after Glaise.  
  
\---  
  
 _Cold. So so cold. So... so_ hungry.  
  
Elian could barely stay on his feet. He could barely keep moving. Where the beauty of the day was lost on Jack because of grief, it was lost on Elian because of sheer terror. He'd been chased out of another town. He'd not stayed there for very long, but he'd actually begun to make friends with some of the boys. Though the town was poor and had very little in the way of food, he had felt relatively comfortable there. Despite the fact that he knew he would have to leave there quickly, he had become comfortable. He should have known better. He was an outcast. A reject. A monster.  
  
The blond stumbled on an exposed root. He cried out in pain. Searing lances of agony shot up from the soles of his feet. They were battered, he knew it, but he had to keep going. He laughed a bitter laugh at the irony of the entire situation. His mother had told him that if he never stopped running around the palace and the first snow caught him that running would be what he would do for the rest of his life. Elian had never believed her, continuing to run through the halls with his brother. Little did he know she was right.  
  
As he struggled to get up, hissing as he gingerly placed his feet back to the dirt, his platinum-blond hair shimmered in the daylight. Elian considered himself cursed through and through. Even his hair was cause for hatred from the common folk. He'd been chased out of towns simply for having hair a colour like his.  
  
Some villages had been kinder, but he'd quickly learned that the fact he was different was enough for people that had learned to love him to throw him out if only to avoid bringing the wroth of other villagers upon themselves. Some towns he'd been let in only to find that it was not much safer than the outside world. In one town he'd been taken ragged, exhausted and hungry enough to eat an ox into a tavern's cellar where he was made to play the lute for the sexual deviants there.  
  
Elian could remember their grimy faces. Could remember the feeling of their lustful gazes boring into him. He could smell the stink of the cellar. The smell was rancid. It was as though the men there were animals. No, he remembered thinking, they were worse than animals. He recalled that no matter how he'd screwed up his playing, they'd cheered for him.  
  
Elian closed his eyes and shuddered, drawing his arms closer to his body. He ended up walking into a tree and falling again. He whimpered. A pathetic sound, considering his state. He remembered the rough calloused hands of those men. How they'd roamed all over his body, ripped the clothes off of him -- used him. He'd been too tired to fight them off. Instead, he lay there, fucked and touched in every conceivable way, absorbing what meager heat he could from their bodies.  
  
At some point in the night Elian had lashed out with his ice, freezing all the men where they stood. He killed them. Every last one. He'd felt dirty. Used. Upstairs when the owner of the tavern tried to stop him, he froze her too. He was hungry. Desperate. He broke into the kitchen, lashing out with his ice at the poor boy that had come at him asking if he was alright. The one soul that had cared for him in that town, dead by his own hands.  
  
Elian pushed himself up, bracing himself against the tree for support. Where his hands touched the trunk, curling spirals of frost spread over the bark. Pain shot up his legs again as he took a step forward. Elian caught himself on the next tree and watched, transfixed and resentful of the frost that curled from his fingers. The intricate latticework had quickly become a symbol of the cold power inside him that was the cause of all his suffering.  
  
The blond hated it. He hated himself. He hated that the world had made him hate himself. The look on that boy's face haunted him to this day. He'd been scared for his life. The boy had just been concerned for him, but he lashed out. He'd often laid awake at night grieving for that one boy. Knowing that the lad had been, if anything, just as afraid as he was. Knowing that the lad had just wanted to help.  
  
That look halfway between concern and fear was burned into his mind. He couldn't shake it. He couldn't remove the image of the frost that covered the boy's skin, much like the frost that covered the trees he touched. He was a monster. A thing that caused only death. Destruction. He was a creature to be feared. To be hated. To be spited.  
  
Elian wanted to be loved, but he didn't think he deserved it. Not after everything he'd done. Yet, for some reason, he still wanted to go on, still wanted to live. He didn't deserve that either. Trackers from the last town were hot on his heels, but he had lost them over the night, it seemed. He stumbled forward, afraid and eager to put more distance between himself and his pursuers.  
  
It was a few pained minutes later that Elian heard the gentle gurgling of a stream. He sighed in relief. The pain in his feet receded for a short while. Elian needed to rest, no matter how much he wanted to get away from the townspeople. He sat down by the bank when he got to the stream. It was a beautiful little stream with smooth rocks on its bed and a silvery shine in the morning light. It was cool and seemed clean.  
  
Elian sat on damp earth and eased his feet into the current. They felt marginally better as soon as the water begun to lap at them. The blond closed his eyes and threw back his head. The water stung his feet, but it also soothed them. From where his hands supported his weight, frost snaked into the surrounding area. Elian sat there for a good five minutes, simply allowing his feet to rest when suddenly a twig broke nearby.  
  
The noise startled him. It was just a squirrel. At this point, though, Elian was so afraid for his life that the squirrel didn't live long enough to apologize for the disturbance. Ice shot out from his palms and froze the squirrel dead just as it jumped into the underbrush. Elian realized he'd grown complacent so he carefully made his way upstream, walking along the stream's bed.  
  
The blond almost fell on his face when he heard shouting not far behind him. Had they caught up to him? He fervently prayed to whatever gods that had not yet abandoned him that his pursuers hadn't. Though, for injuring their favoured one to almost the brink of death, Elian wouldn't be surprised if they turned a deaf ear to his pleas. He trudged along the stream, clutching himself as he felt the air around him grow colder.  
  
Elian closed his eyes, shivering. As he did an image rose to the forefront of his consciousness unbidden. He recalled the time when he'd been forced to work at a brothel. He'd been as tired and hungry and injured as he was now when he'd arrived at that town. Luckily for him the brothel owner saw profit in his looks and gave him food and the skimpiest clothing he could find. His feet had been taken care of cleaned, tinctured and bandaged.  
  
What else happened in that town was too painful to remember. Elian shook his head. He didn't want to remember any of it. Any of it. That town had been one that was far too painful to leave. He shivered and continued trudging along. He kept his ears open, but it seemed his pursuers had gone elsewhere now. He slumped forward when he was certain he was, at least temporarily, in the clear.  
  
It wasn't long until Elian stumbled into a clearing. A spring-fed pond sparkled in the daylight. Elian felt a feeling of serenity wash over him for the first time in two long weeks. He had to rest. He knew that now. There was no hope for him if he kept trying to press on. His feet were in too bad a condition. He could feel the weariness in his bones.  
  
There were boulders near the pond. One of them leaned against a tree and provided what Elian hoped was an adequate shelter from the elements. He looked around quickly, checking for any traps and listening for any voices before he went under the rock and decided to take a nap. He had to rest. He had to. It wasn't long before the blond was sleeping soundly under the boulder.  
  
\---  
  
"Shh. Quiet, Glaise" The overly-energetic dog toned down its excitement. This was one of the best parts about living on the farm. Jack's heart was still heavy in his chest, but he knew he couldn't afford to dwell too much on the despair. He was going to have some fun if it was the end of him. He needed to take his mind off of his parents' deaths. He needed to take his mind off of the fact that he was now alone in the world with none to cherish or love save his dog Glaise.  
  
His parents had given him free reign, when he was old enough, to scare away any intruders. There was someone in the woods nearby, and Jack did not like that. In fact, he was in some sense afraid of what they would do if they found the farm. He didn't want townspeople coming by and disturbing his way of life, or killing him when they found out what he was--what his parents had been.  
  
Jack moved silently through the thick underbrush. Glaise followed behind him, miraculously quiet. Though, at second glance, the dog was simply trying its best not to get snagged on the multitude of low-hanging twigs and branches and bushes. There were definitely people treading nearby, where Jack didn't want them. One of his squirrel traps hung nearby tripped but empty. He swore silently. The men would know that there were other people in the area. Glaise yipped at him.  
  
The young man motioned at Glaise to be quiet. Jack could hear the muted murmur of conversation. He moved towards the source, careful to not reveal his location. He took extra care not to get the pack on his back snagged in the thicket. "Now, Glaise, just like we practiced. Be quiet until I tell you to attack." The dog wagged its tail and lay on the ground in understanding. "Okay." Jack continued moving towards the source of the voices. Glaise followed behind him, belly just slightly above the ground.  
  
"Lad's a fucking cocksucker too, I heard." There were four men, two of them armed with curved blades, the others carried lengths of rope and chains. The other three men nodded in assent to the one that Jack could only assume to be their leader. "Remind me again why we're going after this fucking fag?" Jack felt a stab of fear in his chest. Were they actually coming after him? Who had told them? Were there any others? He decided to follow them, unseen, to eavesdrop.  
  
"'E killed my wife, you idiot!" One of the people carrying the rope knocked the guy on the head with his elbow. "I want revenge, and to rid the world of that abomination too." Jack was relieved. They weren't after him, and probably wouldn't go after him if he didn't bother them, but they were on his land now and he didn't want them there. Not to mention, he felt an odd sense of solidarity with this stranger they were hunting despite having never met him. He realized that there were few enough of people like himself in the world that they should help each other whenever they could.  
  
Jack retreated back into the underbrush, keeping close watch on the voices as they moved into the distance. He quickly donned the menacing cloak he'd sown from squirrel and wolf pelts that he carried in his pack and motioned for Glaise to follow him. The men were standing in a small clearing when he found them again. They were examining something on the ground. Jack thought this would be the perfect time to scare them off. He looked up at the sun and got his bearings. He had to make sure he would scare them off  _away_  from the farm.  
  
The young man got into position and Glaise wagged his tail in anticipation. They were about to have some fun, and hopefully, they were also about to save a life. Jack just wanted them off his land, but deep inside, he hoped against all hope that he would help drive them off the scent of whatever they were hunting. Jack whistled four notes loud enough for the four men to hear. It was a menacing melody and it signalled Glaise to begin howling at the top of his lungs. The young man fastened the cowl of the cloak to shadow his face and picked up the small balls of sheep stomach filled with red paste and maggots that he had prepared for just such an occasion. He launched them at the men as he ran out of the treeline screeching like a maniac.  
  
The stomachs burst as they landed on the ground spraying the men with what looked like blood, sinew and maggots and they all froze for a second, terrified. He took out one more of the stomachs and hurled it right at the men. It burst against the chest of the man standing right in front of him and it was enough to set of a string of curses and muffled screaming as the men scrambled to get away. "Plague Hurler! Plague Hurler!" they yelled as they ran into the woods away from sight and earshot. When their voices had dwindled enough to a satisfactory distance, Glaise burst out of the bushes and ran up to Jack licking some of the red paste off of his face.  
  
"Glaise! That's disgusting!" Jack said. He whooped with laughter. One of the men had left his curved blade behind. Jack picked it up and hefted it. It was pretty good make. He betted he could use it around the farm somehow. He wrapped the weapon in the fur cloak and stowed it away in his pack where he'd left it behind in the trees.  
  
"Plague Hurler? What are those?" There were odd things people believed in, Jack mused. The men must have been from another area entirely. He'd never heard about Plague Hurlers from his parents who were about as native to the area as one could be. They were superstitious, Jack's fathers. He was certain he would have heard something about Plague Hurlers if the local populace believed in them. He shook his head, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  
  
"Ack. I'm disgusting, aren't I Glaise?" The dog cocked its head to the side. "Nah. You wouldn't know. You eat your own shit sometimes!" Jack laughed at his own joke. Glaise just yipped at him and moved in to lick his face again. "Don't you dare!" The dog whined and sat on its haunches. "Alright. Well let's get to the stream and get cleaned up." Jack picked up the pack and hefted it onto his shoulders. He strolled into the clearing and followed the sun to the stream that he knew ran nearby.  
  
He had been walking along for a few minutes, covered in watery paste and dead maggots, when he noticed something off about the forest around him. Bark was stripped off of tree trunks. Twigs were broken all about him. Glaise started barking, nudging Jack's calf and pulling at his trousers. He looked down and saw bloodied leaves on the ground. A bolt of fear shot up Jack's spine. He hoped the blood was just from a maimed deer, probably caught by one of the preying creatures of the forest. He was not entirely familiar with the treatment of injury, but having lived and worked on a farm for his entire life, he'd learned how to clean and dress and soothe wounds. Any more serious injuries though, he was not exactly familiar with.  
  
Jack gritted his teeth and walked faster, a new determination burning in the pit of his stomach where a knot of apprehension also seemed to be wound. The air went from a warm balmy temperature to an entirely foreign chill. The coldness was unnatural, particularly for the time of year. Despite the strangeness of the cold air in the middle of spring, something deep inside him urged him on. The day had begun with enough death as it was. He prayed to the gods that his parents had believed in that it wouldn't end with another. He stayed on the path even as Glaise ran ahead of him, following the tangy metallic scent of the blood.  
  
The gentle gurgling of the streem filtered through the trees. Behind it followed a chilly breeze that raised Jack's hackles. He couldn't help but jump to the side in shock when all of a sudden, a tree that had been hidden from his sight entered his view. It was covered in spiralling tendrils of frost up and down its trunk. "What is this?" His question went unanswered. Glaise forged on, running when Jack stopped to examine the tree. The man looked up at his dog and noticed that trees all along the path were frosted over. "Glaise! Wait!" Jack threw caution to the wind and ran after Glaise. He was both eager and at the same time apprehensive of what he was going to find. He wanted to get to the bottom of the enigma that was winter where it had no reason to be.  
  
*  
  
The sun had set. Searching downstream had proven fruitless. The trail of frost and blood had abruptly stopped at the stream bank where it was already beginning to melt. There was no white or crimson on the other side. Nor was there any sign of whatever it was that they had been following elsewhere in the forest. Their quarry had probably taken to walking along the streambed.  
  
It took Jack a long time to decide which way to go. At this point, the frost had long since settled his mind that whatever had been bleeding was no deer. Deer had no dominion over the powers of Winter, nor did any of the arcane creatures that his parents had told him about. Whatever it was did not belong in this land. Dread coiled in his heart the moment he decided to go downstream. What if he was wrong? What if the injured creature had gone upstream? Would his wrong decision have cost something's life?  
  
He decided that his search would prove fruitless in the pitch dark of the night. The moon was waxing, but its light was not nearly enough to see properly through the forest. Heart heavy with inexplicable concern, Jack returned to the farm. In the near-absolute darkness, Jack stumbled around the farmhouse, looking for one of their oil lanterns in order to continue his search well into the night if he had to. "Fuck!" There was a loud clatter against a nearby wall. Jack hopped on one foot. The other throbbed in pain.  
  
Jack finally managed to stumble his way into the kitchen where he found the lamp. It took a little more fumbling to find the flint and steel that they had nearby, but once he found it, it was fairly easy to set light to the lamp. Once its flame was flickering merrily inside the glass cage, Jack went around the farmhouse, lighting candles and lamps to shed some light on the dark of the night.  
  
Jack noted that he would need to go and buy more oil from the neighbours soon. He considered learning how to make his own, but he realized he neither had the resources or the equipment necessary to do so. If he wanted to try, he would first have to find a good place to catch lampfish as the locals called them. He'd had some as a kid, during a harder time when some of the crops failed, but they were absolutely tasteless and greasy. He shook his head. He had to remain focused on the task at hand.  
  
There was a portrait of his fathers hanging above the fireplace that had not seen months of use. He turned to it, lamp in hand, its flame flickering ever so calmly in the glass cage. "Am I doing the right thing?" There was a part of him that rebelled against looking for whatever had made the frost, whatever the other men had been following. After all, they'd mentioned murder. What if he was going after a killer? If he was then he'd soon be joining his fathers in some torturous hell that the local religion told them awaited people like them. "You always said that people like us have to stick together because everyone else wants us dead... I wish you were here."  
  
Jack wiped the tear that beaded in the corner of his eye away. He steeled his resolve. Whatever happened, he was going to try and help. The men hadn't seemed pleasant at all to begin with, talking of all manner of depraved things they would do to the "fag" before killing him in revenge. It sickened him, the perverse fantasies of the self-proclaimed bringers of justice that he'd scared off not too long ago. With his lamp at his right, he walked into the woods, determined to find out what really was happening. He'd bid Glaise to stay behind. The faithful companion had complained but ultimately gave in to its master's wishes.  
  
This time Jack would go upstream. Downstream had not borne any fruit. He would see do all he could to shed light on the mystery that faced him or die trying. He breathed a deep breath and prepared himself for the long night ahead. Such was his fervour that it never even crossed his mind that upstream was the pond that he would often sit by on nights or days that his thoughts and his heart simply could not be settled around the farm.  
  
\---  
  
Elian awoke to shivers and frost clinging to the boulder that provided him what little shelter it could. His feet ached and little motions of them offered little comfort, only searing pain. The sun had gone down long ago, it seemed and pale moonlight shone into the clearing. The young man's bleary eyes widened in astonishment at the beauty of the small pond. Though the water was placid, it shimmered in the moonlight. In the grass by the pond, delicate blue flowers swayed in the slight breeze, their petals faintly glowing in the light of the pale waxing moon.  
  
The blond could faintly hear the chirping of crickets and the singing of nightbirds carrying across the rippling pond and the gurgling stream. The trees themselves seemed to have a life of their own. The branches at the edge of the clearing danced ever so slightly to the whim of the gentle wind. The shadows they cast on the trunks of the trees where the moonlight could not touch them were mesmerizing. Beyond the first trees, the foliage was thick enough for very little light to be let through, but in the clearing, the full splendour of the growing moon shone bright.  
  
Elian's breath caught in his throat. There were precious few places like these left in the world, and most were far apart from each other. For a moment, the pain in his feet and completely spent legs was faded to a faint buzz in the back of his mind as he took in the wonder of this small secluded place he had found. There were no angry men, no hostile shouts to disturb its tranquil. Elian had made sure to listen. No, there was nothing but the serene sounds of the stream as it flowed along at an amicable speed, the creatures of the forest, and the rustling of leaves in the wind. Such pity he'd not found such a place before. He'd never have left, food be damned.  
  
His pursuers were dead to him. No sign of them at all. No lamplight nor gruff voices to shatter the peace of the clearing. Elian decided the men were probably camped and asleep somewhere now, and since he was not going to be able to walk at that moment, he might as well bathe in the pond. He stripped off his clothes, gingerly avoiding his feet. He clutched the cloths to his chest and began the arduous crawl to the pond. Fortunately for him it was not so difficult, and the ground was clear of little rocks that would otherwise be painful. He set his garments to the side of the pond and righted himself, first placing his feet in the cool water.  
  
Much to Elian's surprise, the water was warmer than he'd imagined. Though whether it was because the pond was warm or because he was so cold that even cool water felt warm to him, he could not tell. He'd long since lost any accurate sense of temperature he'd once possessed. The water calmed the pain that was lancing through his feet, and Elian was finally able to stand. He considered plunging into the pond, throwing all caution to the wind. The frost that shot out of his hand was quick to remind him of what had happened the last time he'd bathed so carelessly. A moonflower nearby froze completely and shattered in a cloud of tiny frost crystals and larger pieces of frozen petal.  
  
Elian mustered what little strength he had left and raised his right foot. When he placed it back down it was on a platform of ice that had materialized over the surface of the water. The cold was soothing. It numbed the pain in his feet. He could walk decently on ice. He wished that the ground was as forthcoming as bodies of water, but it wasn't. Ice was difficult to conjure into flat sheets that wouldn't pierce his feet when he walked onto them on the ground. Making ice was also an exertion that he'd quickly learned wasn't worth going through when there were people pursuing him. It took vital energy away from being able to run and keep himself away from those who would be his captors.  
  
Right. Left. Right. Left. As Elian's feet left the platforms of ice, they broke apart into little pieces that sparkled in the moonlight before they drifted away and melted back into the waters from whence they came. When he stood in the middle of the pond, he willed the ice to fan out more, giving him room to stand without fearing falling over. He looked up at the moon, naked as the day he'd been born. "Goddess..." he whispered. He laughed bitterly, knowing that the gods had long since abandoned him. "Goddess I've not seen you in a long time..."  
  
"Would you spare me no help?"  
  
Only silence answered his plea.  
  
\---  
  
Flame sputtered in the lamp that swung from Jack's hand, thankful for the glass that protected it from the wind that would snuff it out of existence. It was but a few seconds ago that Jack had noticed little flecks of frost drifting along with the stream. They were the first indication in some time that the young man was on the right track. Whatever it was that he was looking for seemed to be wreathed in frost, or was followed by it. Needless to say he had slowed down his pace and done his best to move quietly as he could.  
  
It was only as he passed a large rock by the side of the stream overgrown with the roots of the tree perched on a bank of dirt above it that Jack realized where he was headed. His pond.  _His_  place of thinking and quiet. He looked in vain to the skies, trying to catch glimpse of the stars that shone there, of the countless ancestral spirits he'd been told were watching. "Is this by providence of the gods?" he whispered to himself as he crept along, silent as he could. The damp earth of the riverbank only served to help keep his footfalls muffled.  
  
As Jack neared the clearing he could hear none of the usual singing of the night songbirds, but he could hear a different and, for the time of year, entirely foreign sound. Over the stream and through the trees, the sound of cracking and creaking ice punctuated the night every so often. The noise was fairly louder than the chirping of crickets, and so carried clearly through the crisp night air. He crept even closer to the opening of the clearing into where the stream flowed.  
  
The sight that greeted Jack left him slack-jawed and, admittedly, drooling. There, standing on a platform of shifting ice stood the most beautiful creature that the poor farmlad had ever seen. Jack quickly blew out the lamp at his side, concerned that the other man might see him and accuse him of being a faggot. Needless to say, he could not take his eyes off of the sight before him.  
  
He -- Jack could see the impressive tackle that was on the man -- was of alabaster skin that glowed with a pale silkiness. The creature was bathed in the light of a moon that was brighter than it had any right to be even when it was full. The blond was surrounded by a halo of moonlight. The sight was truly magical.  
  
Jack gulped as his eyes roamed down from the platinum locks that adorned the other man's head down to his narrow shoulders. His eyes followed the curve of the man's back and the slender taper of his torso to his waist. There was beauty there, but Jack knew that the other man's thinness could not be healthy. It almost reeked of starvation. Still, his eyes could not help themselves but roam further down, over the twin mounds of creamy flesh and the seam that ran between them. Down to strong thighs and... calves all cut up by twigs and bushes. Fortunately for the farmlad, the ice shielded his eyes from the grotesquerie that was the creature's battered feet.  
  
The creature seemed healthy enough that Jack thought himself a bit foolish for getting in such a fuss over a person whom he thought was about to die. Even so, he could not bring bitter thoughts into the forefront of his consciousness. He was absolutely captivated. Thoughts of coupling with the other man crept unbidden into Jack's mind and he felt his manhood swell in his breeches. He felt blood surge to his cheeks and warmth fill his face and his ears.  
  
Just as Jack thought the apparition before him could be no more magical, he noticed for the first time what it was actually doing. It was bathing in a way that was completely foreign to the farmlad, but equally elegant and magical and awe-inspiring. Orbs of water drifted up from the pond. Their surfaces were covered by spiralling fractals of frost that kept them contained before the ice melted and the water poured over the creature. He'd never seen such a sight before, and Jack had to hold back a gasp.  
  
One after another spheres of water were lifted from the pond and rapidly wrapped in beautiful latticeworks of frost only to melt and cascade over beautiful almost-white hair and marble-like skin. The water glittered in the moonlight as it was raised and as it rained down. It glittered even as it flowed down the other man's body in rivulets that followed every seam and curve in an almost lascivious fashion. As droplets of water left the creature's body, they froze and bounced off of the platform of ice back into the lake with the faintest of clinks like glass against glass.  
  
As if it wasn't enough that in the centre of the lake stood such marvellous beauty, moonflies flew about him in a dazzling display of twinkling blue lights. They danced in a circle that in turn danced in towards him and out away from him. The Blue Maids that glowed faintly in the light of the moon swayed to the rhythm of the wind as well. Even the moonlight itself seemed to sparkle and give the creature bathing innocently in the middle of Jack's pond an almost ethereal quality. "By the gods. Have I found one of the fair folk?" Jack whispered to himself, adjusting his half-hard member in his pants.  
  
Jack watched, entranced and unable to take his eyes away from the awe-inspiring sight in front of him for fear that if he so much as turned his head slightly, that it would vanish before he knew it. He felt his heart beating quickly in his chest, and he could hear the blood rushing through his head.  
  
Fear held him back, but his heart told him that it wanted nothing more than to get closer to the beautiful, mesmerizing, and truly strange creature that was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I know there's a lot of exposition in this chapter, and there will be a lot as well in the next one. However, things will pick up much faster after the third chapter and shit will start going down.
> 
> I will be posting a new chapter every week, hopefully. If I don't get a chapter up on the expected day, I will post it as soon as I can.
> 
> Remember! Leave a comment if you liked the story! I would love to hear from you. If you want intermittent updates about posts and... *gasp* Maybe some spoiler-y teasers, follow me on tumblr at http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com!


	2. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter delves a bit more into Elian's past and the situation that got him involved in the week-long chase that up until Jack's interference had been relentless. We also get to see our ice-boy be a little bad-ass, if not a bit bath-phobic.
> 
> Jack finds something that his father hid for him. What it is, though, will have to wait. 
> 
> And oops. There maaaay be just a teeny problem when our two protagonists meet each other.

Being able to bathe, even though it was by moonlight, and even though it was with battered and bleeding feet was a refreshing change of pace for Elian. He had spent the last week on the run, and the shoes he'd managed to "steal" had worn out before the third day was out. They had been an old pair. The kindly old lady that had given it to him thinking he was her grandson said they were old but sturdy. What a load of horsedung that statement had been, he mused as the water cascaded around his body.  
  
Elian felt a twinge of guilt in his heart since the last village he'd been to was a relatively poor one and the shoes he'd stolen were probably the only shoes that the poor kid would have gotten in some time. From what the old woman said, it was "his" nameday and that she'd spent a long time looking for the old shoes to give him because she couldn't find anything else worth giving to her grandson. The remorse was relatively short-lived in the front of his consciousness where it was beaten out by the justification he had used time and time again: he had to survive. In the harsh world he lived in, remorse did little to help. Instead the guilt remained at the back of his mind, gnawing at his psyche relentlessly, fed by the amalgam of the atrocities he'd committed, both small and bordering on the truly despicable.  
  
Elian hadn't stayed long in that village. Between feeling bad for the old woman and very little in the way of food from the villagers, there were few reasons to stay longer than he did. A woman had tried to drive him out with a pack of dogs, barking as the hounds of hell would in pursuit of an errant soul. She yelled all manner of profanity at him and wielding a curved blade with a battered edge and a layer of rust that made Elian's blood run cold.  
  
Terror had seized Elian's heart, a cold skeletal hand that clutched at every dreg of his humanity and pushed them away, locking them behind an icy prison. A dark haze descended upon his eyes and shaded them from reason as the ice, destructive and rebellious, arced from his hands and froze the woman to what he could only assume was her death. It was mere hours later that he was alerted to his plight by the light of torches and the yelling of angry men. "Faggot! Get back here! Face a real man!" they called out, voices straining in the darkness of the night but burdened with not only grief but also immeasurable anger. He could hear the hacking of branches and the sound of blades cleaving the underbrush in twain. These were dangerous men and Elian had to get away.  
  
Two days and two nights, Elian ran, hoping to make some progress on the men that were tracking him, to no avail. Every time he stopped to catch his breath he would hear the sound of their blades drawing inexorably closer; the peals of the bell that would sound his doom getting louder and louder through the dense, dank woods. His feet had been sore, his legs burning with exhaustion, but he had to keep running, if only for another minute, another hour, another day. He could not afford the men the chance to catch up to him, for as much as he despised the thing, the monster that he'd become, he desperately clung on to the hope that he would one day redeem himself in the eyes of both gods and men.  
  
The shoes that were the one thing that protected his feet from the rough dirt strewn with all manner of sharp rocks and detritus had almost been worn out by midday on the second day of his egress. The men in pursuit were relentless, urging Elian on, and on, beyond the limits of his human endurance. Perhaps only his ice truly kept the exhaustion at bay, slowing down the functions of his body, consuming and directing whatever strength he had into keeping himself alive. By then he'd worn a hole in the heel of his left shoe and his feet were beginning to get blistered.  
  
Elian shivered, remembering that this was but a momentary lull in the chase. He would find no rest from the men who followed his trail, keen and hot in pursuit and seeking vengeance and probably all manner of pain and suffering on the blond. He despised the simple matter that he knew why he would never find reprieve from the men, that even time itself would not dull the burning desire for revenge that burned in their hearts; he was a monster. He was a terrifying creature to be feared, not loved. A beast that held at his fingertips the very powers of Winter. The very cold that sucked life from the land and left fields fallow and barren.  
  
Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, glittering in the light of the moon that seemed to smile silently, cruelly upon him. The glittering trails of water froze as they freed themselves from his skin, falling to the platform of ice upon which he stood with a deceptively gentle tinkle. A tremor ran from the base of his feet up his slender frame. The spheres of water faltered in their graceful ascent. He righted them, wanting only to finish his "bath". He'd become afraid of proper baths, both for the painful memories that they bore for him, as well as the terror and unrest that they seemed to, without failure, bring. He could not take a bath without seeing his skin soaked in blood, both the blood of the lives he'd taken and the lives that had been taken from the person that simply wanted to protect him.  
  
Elian heard a faint whisper, a ghost in the wind almost too soft for mortal hearing. He looked around, eyes wide in wonder. How had he not noticed? The night air was quiet. Nary a rustle of leaf, or hoot of owl, or song of nightingale rang out in response to his gaze. He looked up at the trees and saw beady eyes watching him as though entranced, enraptured by the light of the moon that danced daintily over his pallid skin. He smiled, for but a fleeting moment. It was a pained smile, one that barely stretched the corners of his lips; it was the smile of a man who had seen much grief and too little joy. These other creatures saw the beauty of ice, he only saw the destruction and death it wrought. A chill ran up his spine. It felt as though there were eyes boring into his very soul. He turned, heart beating loudly in his chest, hammering against the bones of his ribs as though yearning for the skies. There was nothing. Nothing but the dark forest, the moonlight, the pond and the myriad creatures watching him. There was nothing but blessed silence.  
  
Elian breathed a sigh of relief, his breath curling about in front of his face in a shower of tiny frost crystals. Then, the sound of a twig breaking shattered the silence of the night. Overwhelming fear gripped Elian. A dark, terrifying haze hung over his eyes and shielded him from all reason and humanity. The ice within him would not be contained. Frost spun in ragged bolts from his hands, as though lightning that seared the heavens when clouds were thick, only this lightning bore no fire of the gods, only ice. The ice arced to the surface of the lake, crackling with a madness that would deceive any that witnessed it into believing that it had a life of its own. Where ice and water met, great sheets of ice erupted into existence, spiderwebbed with cracks and spindles of darker, blacker ice.  
  
Elian drew in deep breath after deep ragged breath. He clutched his hands to his chest as a mighty wind picked up about him and swirled around the clearing, but only around the clearing. The howling wind ripped leaves and twigs from the trees and hurled every manner of forest creature that was caught in its malicious anger against both trunk and branch. Waves of Elian's power rolled across the surface of the pond, freezing whatever had not been frozen yet. The ice crashed across the shore, bringing icy death to all that was unfortunate enough to be there. The ice kept coming. Wave after wave that rang unimpeded through the clearing. Frost climbed the tree-trunks ragged and without its normal elegance. Birds that had not been caught by the wind or frozen to death in the trees nearest to the clearing took to the air in a cacophony of caws, titters, hoots, and the flapping of winds.  
  
Elian buried his face in his hands that still arced bolts of frost into the air. He wept. The outburst was raucous, and could certainly have been heard from far away. Elian sank to his knees; he was found; he was dead. He had, for all that he tried, failed to find meaning, to find some form of redemption, to pay some recompense for the myriad atrocities he'd committed against his fellow man.  _Snap. Snap. Snap._  The breaking of twigs and branches continued, echoing clear through the night. Elian heard each and every one clearly; Elian felt each and every one clearly. Each felt like getting stabbed by a rapier, or cleft by a sword, or pierced by a crossbow. With each sound the ice beneath his knees buckled and cracked, sending fractures spiderwebbing through the pond's frozen surface. The noise from the ice cracking was thunderous. He'd frozen the pond deep.  
  
 _Crack._  He looked to the moon and held out his arms, prostrate. "Forgive me." His hands shook and his eyes softest blue like the morning sky quivered with fear and despair too. His voice was heavy with pleading, thick with desperation.  _Crack_. With a final deafening crack, the ice broke, sending clouds of finer crystals of frost into the air and plunging Elian deep into the now-murky water of the pond. Made inky by the shroud of night, the water closed over Elian's head. The cold, enough for Elian to feel it, was so acute that he could not help but draw in a huge sucking breath. Had his face not been underwater by the time he did, he might have been able to swim to the surface.  
  
Water flooded his lungs and he flailed helpessly, reaching vainly for the surface and the moon that shone above it even as the ice that had sank with him rose to seal the hole he'd fallen through. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Water filled his throat and his nostrils. It hurt. It  _hurt_.  
  
Most of all it was cold.  
  
So very, very,  _very_  cold.  
  
\---  
  
Jack continued watching. Enchanted. Rapt. Feelings and needs that had never before truly touched his young heart, emerged from their hiding in the shadows of his fearful mind. Lust, admiration, infatuation. None of these had he felt in all his years on the farm. The only other family within a day's travel of their farm had only daughters whom Jack held in highest contempt for all their futile attempts to bed him whenever he came about with Nyko and Kyle. Their father had had something to say about it all when he caught one of his daughters pushing herself on a less-than-amused Jack. The girl probably spent the rest of the day cleaning out the stables for all the trouble she'd managed to call upon herself. Thankfully, they never tried again after that. Though if Jack was being perfectly honest, he'd not gone back more than twice after that happened.  
  
Jack's heart rebelled against the more sensible part of his mind. He'd lived with his parents in fear and isolation for so long that even such a beautiful creature so innocent in its bathing was an object of fear for Jack. His mind, twisted and honed by years of terror and words of warning from his fathers made it clear that the beautiful man would like bring to bear the wrath of winter upon his countenance should he be found spying. His heart, the one part of Jack that remained pure as the morning light despite all the years of isolation, instead told him that the creature he beheld was his one chance at finding the love that his fathers had. After all, how often did anyone walk through the forest surrounding their small farm? How often did anyone of his age come nearby? Jack knew the answer. It wasn't very often. He'd never had to scare off more than two or three travellers from his land in every passing of the seasons.  
  
The days were getting longer, and the comforting darkness of night was becoming shorter. Summer was on the verge of washing over the land, and Jack new that any and all of the farmlads in the area with whom he even had a shred of a chance with would be far too busy tending to their fields to pay him any attention. In fact, Jack himself needed to get on with the planting of some of his crop. Jack would be alone for an extended period of time, working the field and the pasture all on his own. It was a compelling argument, that, but years upon years of dire warnings and memories of how his parents reacted to seemingly simple things were hard to shake. He remained rooted firmly in place, held back by fear from what his heart desired most at the moment. "If you are listening..." Jack whispered, still riveted to the sight before him. "Please. Tell me what I must do..." The gods were deaf to his pleas as they had been to many of his fathers'.  
  
The gleaming orbs of water faltered as they rose. Jack watched as a tremble raced up the other man's slender frame, intrigued. Moments later, the man turned and cast his sight almost exactly where Jack stood and Jack could see the blond's eyes dilate in fear. For all he knew, Jack was certain that his own eyes had done the same. Fear. It was all he'd ever known. The fear was enveloping, overwhelming, all-encompassing. He retreated, silently as he could, yet still unable to take his eyes from the sight before him. He forcibly tore his eyes from the naked, pallid, beautiful visage before him and turned and ran into the murky darkness of the forest. A twig broke under his feet. He cursed.  
  
Jack heard a thunderous crackle, a howling wind, and a pulsating whoosh behind him. Fear kept his eyes staring straight forward, into the trees. His mind was completely and absolutely certain that the other man was in pursuit, perhaps to turn him into a block of ice. Booming cracks filled the night air. One after another the cracking sounds assailed his ears, almost deafening in the silence of the night. Ultimately, curiosity overcame the will to survive, his heart would not agree with his mind. He wrenched his eyes from the path in front of him and threw his gaze over his shoulder. He had no pursuer. In the bright light of the moon, what he saw was a frozen pond and a ring of frost wrapping around the trees. In the light of the moon, he saw the ice covering the pond buckle and crack and moan. He saw it break, sending the pale apparition tumbling into the water.  
  
Jack gasped. He wanted to help, yet his entire body was locked into the run. Though he wanted to stop, each foot he planted on the earth intending to skid to a halt instead drove him ever forward. He knew what happened to most animals that fell into frozen lakes. The sight was rarely pretty, and even more seldom was their survival. The brunet knew that the laws of both gods and men would have demanded him to run back and help the poor soul, but fear and adrenalin were surging in his system. He could not stop himself from seeking the comfort and sure safety of home. Remorse could wait.  
  
*  
  
Jack must have looked quite frazzled because the moment he entered, Glaise was all over him, whining, barking, and licking his face. "Glaise. Glaise. It's alright. I'm alright." Jack's breath came in ragged gasps and his entire body shuddered as he panted for breath, having neither stopped nor slowed the whole way back to the farmhouse. It was a lie. A filthy lie meant to assure not Glaise, but his own rebelling conscience. His emotions were in complete and utter turmoil and his eyes darted about the room frantically.  
  
The brunet was also quite badly scratched up, what with running through the forest in the dark of night where twig and branch and root and shadow all melded together under the blinding veil of darkness. "Fuck." Jack swore under his breath. In his haste to run from the danger he'd perceived, he'd forgotten the lantern. He would have to return for it. Deep inside his consciousness, a part of him rejoiced for it wanted nothing more than to return to the pond if only just to see if any lasting harm had been done to the beautiful creature he'd watched there. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mind was in utter disarray.  
  
"Alright, Glaise. Go to sleep." Jack cooed to his dog and placed his head against its furry muzzle. A warm salty tear fell from the corner of his eye and the hound licked it up. The rambunctious ball of white fur whined and stalked off to his corner of the farmhouse, not satisfied with Jack's assurances. He trotted about the corner in a circle as he would always do and lay down, one of his eyes cracked open and following Jack's every move. Jack smiled a small smile. It was one that only daintily danced upon his lips. He shook his head before climbing up the stairs. The creaking of each step sounded strangely magnified in the empty house.  
  
Jack pushed open the door to his quaint room. He could not bear the thought of taking over his parents' bedroom, at least not yet. The pain of Kyle's passing was still fresh on his mind. His thoughts turned to Glaise. The dog had been his faithful companion for years. He'd raised Glaise since he was a puppy. He'd played with Glaise and cared for the ball of white fur when the dog was sick. The dog had repaid him in kind whenever he came down with a cough or a fever and watched over him. Though his love for the dog would span all eternity, he knew that Glaise wouldn't live forever. Jack dreaded the day that he knew would come that Glaise simply wouldn't be there anymore and he would be well and truly alone.  
  
Jack crawled into his bed and laid on his back, eyes affixed to the ceiling. Had he done the right thing? Why would his fear not let him anywhere near the man he'd seen at the pond who wielded powers mere mortals could only dream of? His parents never seemed to have a problem bathing in front of and with him, nor had he a problem with them being naked before him. Then again, the alabaster-skinned creature was not one of his parents. Nor was he entirely sure it was human at all. After all, what mortal man had dominion over the powers of winter? Regardless, there was a heavy knot of regret and guilt in the pit of Jack's stomach.  
  
What did it say about him, that in his fear, he'd left a man to fall and probably drown in a frozen lake, helpless? Jack shivered. His actions bore truths that neither his heart or his mind wished to face. The apparition seemed to be controlling the ice and had stood on it with almost no discomfort at all. So he must be impervious to the cold! Jack reasoned to himself. That was it! He hadn't left the man to his death. He himself had had the ill-guided experience of plunging into the pond at winter's end as the ice that covered the ground thawed. The water had been ice-cold then, and had only served to force him to breathe in the still-chilly air. He knew that most of the animals that fell through the ice met the same fate, only some of them were submerged when the need for breath overtook them, drowning them.  
  
Yes. Jack had not killed anyone by being too afraid. Part of his mind continued to protest.  _"What if he_ is _affected by the cold? What then?"_  but it all fell on deaf ears. He would not hear it. He would not have it. He did not need the guilt to bear on his consciousness. After all, he had no chance of getting what his heart wanted from the blond anyway. He sighed. Maybe his destiny  _was_  to be alone, to never find anyone that would fill his days with love and laughter. To never find happiness with another man.  
  
Jack frowned. The thought was unsettling. He stared at the ceiling for a good long while with nothing but the silence of the night for company. Even Glaise was dead quiet; it was odd. Even in his sleep, the dog was oft rambunctious. Jack guessed that Glaise was being sympathetic to the turmoil that was raging inside of him. He shook his head and turned on his side. The wall was now before his eyes, painted faintly by the moonlight that was no longer as bright as it had been in that clearing.  
  
There was definitely something strange at work in the woods, arcane things far beyond his own comprehension. A man who brought with him cold and frost and ice when by all rights all of it should have thawed long weeks ago and a moon whose light shone brighter than it had, by any virtue of its nature, any right to shine. Jack was still awestruck by the beauty of the sight he had beheld. There was no denying it, he was deeply infatuated. Whether it was with the man who'd been there or the grandeur of the apparition, he did not know. Nor would he ever know, he guessed, sadly.  
  
His heart cried out and he knew that beyond the fact that he wanted to see more of the man, that beyond the fact that he wanted to witness such beauty again, he truly just did not want to be alone anymore. Back in the clearing, probably soaked in the cold waters of the pond, was his one hope of that. Yet his mind would not let the want sit. There were needs that superseded them. He  _had_  to stay alone or find someone like him lest he face serious injury, or worse, death.  
  
 _But the men from before had said that he was a faggot too!_  protested his heart.  
  
 _Nonsense._  His mind said.  _You haven't the faintest idea if he was the one being pursued. Even if he was, how are you so sure that they were not just lying to justify their cause?_  The point was a strong one. A valid one. Jack simply didn't know enough about the other man to say for sure. Not to mention, did he really want to mess with something that was very clearly born of old magicks? With someone that brought with him the ancient standards of Winter itself? Jack shivered at the thought. It was all beyond his understanding. Yet, inexplicably, some part of his heart said that it did, indeed, want to risk all of that, if only for a chance to no longer be alone.  
  
Jack's mind drifted back to the apparition he had encountered at his pond. He remembered the moonlight that framed the beautiful creature in a majestic halo. He remembered the glittering spheres of water that seemed to dance their way around and over him only to burst and shower him with a cleansing cascade. He remembered the rivulets of water that ran down that naked body, following every sensuous curve and dip. For a moment, Jack's paranoid mind was pushed to the side and he reveled in his heart's desires. Desires that shot through his body and straight down to the centre of all men's lusts.  
  
The night was punctuated by the rhythmic rustling of sheets and soft moans of pleasure.  
  
\---  
  
The creaking of ice sheets as they began to break apart in the heat and light of the morning sun served as the cock's crow to wake Elian. The gurgle of water filled his ears as his body bobbed up and down by the shore of the pond. He coughed up some water from his lungs. It seemed that even water colder than most mortal man could bear, could not hurt him. He laughed. The sound was a ragged, broken one. Ice-cold water was one of winter's domains and as the first of his people to have the curse, it could not truly hurt him. He should have known better.  
  
Elian did not move for a moment. He was still alive. He was, for the most part, at least, alright. No new injuries were apparent other than the ones he had already accrued. He shook his head. Who was it that had spied on him, then? If there were no others that had come, then whoever it was had not bothered to bring to bear upon him the wrath of his fellowmen. Truth be told, as Elian remembered the night vividly, the mysterious stranger had only run away when Elian had turned to look for him. Who was this creature that was more afraid than hateful of him, of an unknown man at whose fingertips lay the powers of all of winter?  
  
Elian could not answer the question. He simply did not know. The waters rippled around his slender frame. He had not taken a good long look at himself in a while. He was pitifully starved. Whatever definition had been on his body in the years before his exile was now gone. He was practically skin and bones. What little food he sparingly had went into feeding his body's insatiable thirst for heat and energy to survive. He wondered what the numerous brothels that had at times offered and at times forced him into service had found worth money in him. Perhaps the fact that few people if any in the area had hair and skin like his made him exotic, and thus a pricey commodity.  
  
He shivered. Elian's past since his exile was checkered, and most of it much better forgotten than remembered. He drew himself up and out of the water. His feet were still quite sore, but the long soak had made sure that for the time, at least, they did not hurt as much as they once had. He had washed up on the opposite side of the pond from where he'd laid down his clothes the previous night. He didn't really want to walk all the way over to the other side, but it seemed like he had little in the way of choice in the matter. He could not swim across, there were too many ice floes for it to be practical.  
  
Elian gathered his energy and froze for himself a path across the pond. He had very little fight left in him. This was far from the longest time he'd gone without food and without warmth, but this was the longest time he'd spent being pursued. Every joint in his body ached with fatigue, but he had to continue on. No life, even one befitting slaves and animals awaited him should he for a moment falter in his steps. Only death awaited him if he stopped. He dragged himself onto the ice and began to walk towards his clothing.  
  
Elian carefully knelt by the shore, his feet still well protected by the ice and picked up his clothes. The torn linen of his trousers and his tunic was soaked with moisture, probably from the frost that he'd managed to cover most everything with the previous night. A lot of it had thawed, he noted, as he looked around. The ground was wet with meltwater and droplets of it glimmered on blades of grass. The blond considered allowing his clothes to dry, but quickly realized it would be a death sentence to wander the forest naked.  
  
Elian pulled on his breeches and the ragged tunic that he'd managed to grab two or three towns back. They were frightfully damp and Elian knew that if it was windy, he was likely to call upon himself some plague or illness ill-begotten by wrathful gods. He winced when he put his feet to dry land, the coarse dirt and blades of grass that bent under his feet got into the wounds and rubbed against his blisters, sending bolts of searing pain up his legs. The very earth, it seemed, wanted him gone. Winter was no longer welcome for it was time for new life to be brought to the land, not scourged from it as the cold wind of winter served to do.  
  
Elian tore two long strips of cloth from his tunic and picked up two slabs of ice from the pond. He set them against his feet and bound them as securely as he could muster. As long as he had the energy to keep himself conscious, the ice should help. He looked through the trees and steeled himself. It was time to try and find something, anything, to eat.  
  
\---  
  
Jack woke up to sunlight streaming through the open window of his room. The cool earthy breeze of summer's first days wafted in and made the motes of dust drifting in the golden light dance. He rose from his bed, eyes bleary and tossed the crusty rag he'd used the previous night to clean himself up to the side. He pulled on his breeches and a fresh tunic at the same instant that he heard Glaise bound up the stairs and begin to enthusiastically paw at his room's door.  
  
"Hey Glaise..." Jack yawned, the memory of the man still fresh in his mind. The mere thought set his heart aflutter and he felt blood rise to his cheeks. What would the man think if he'd known that Jack had spilled his seed to the image of him? The fantasy had been vivid. The fantasy had been powerful. Jack had never been quite so horny as he was thinking about the creature he'd seen at the pond. It took very little prodding for him to blow his first load, but he'd been painfully hard still and had to blow another before his cock, and, if he was being honest, heart, were satisfied.  
  
"I'll make breakfast, Kyle..." Jack called out, a spry step in his gait as he walked down the stairs to the kitchen where he took out two plates and set them on the table. He visited their pantry and began to take out what was needed to make breakfast enough for two, but then it struck him, there was no need. There was only one mouth he had to feed now: his own.  
  
Jack sat on a chair and stared blankly at the empty plate in front of him. He was alone. His last remaining parent was dead. Buried beside his husband and the man he loved and risked his life for. Jack was alone. He buried his face in his hands as the tears came and shuddering sobs shook him. Wet spots quickly appeared where his tears fell upon the wooden table. He missed them already. They might not have been his biological parents, but they'd shown him all the love and care that they could muster. They taught him well and had made sure he would not be left without the skills he would need to ensure his survival. He loved them and they loved him and he missed them sorely.  
  
Glaise whined beside him and the dog pulled at his owner's breeches. Jack reached down, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I'm okay, boy. Don't you worry." He gulped, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. "I'll be alright." He petted Glaise. "We'll be alright."  
  
*  
  
Breakfast was a somber affair of eggs and salted meat. It was their typical morning meal, and arguably, his father Kyle's favourite meal judging by the rapturous expression he had whenever they ate breakfast. Even on his deathbed, Kyle found solace in their morning food, and so, Jack was not so surprised that Kyle released his hold on life after breakfast. He wiped the last of his tears from the corners of his eyes. His parents would not have wanted him to spend so long grieving for them. There was work to be done on the farm.  
  
Jack had other things on his mind. As he placed the wooden plates in a nearby pail filled with well-water, he resolved to return to the pond. He'd thought over breakfast what he was going to do about the creature he'd seen there. The other man had not seemed to be hostile, and, it seemed, that he had been as scared of Jack as the brunet had been of him. Jack decided that if he was going to go back to grab his lantern, he was obliged to check on the other man if only just to see that he was not dead.  
  
He made to leave, but not before going around the house once more to see if anything was out of place. It was a mannerism he'd picked up from his parents who never seemed to be quite at peace even at home. Whenever they would leave they would always go around once and check if there were still any candles alight or if there were any people who were, for some unfathomable reason, hiding in the darkened corners of the house.  
  
Jack found nothing out of line. Everything was where it should be. Just as he was about to leave, though, he noticed that something was indeed amiss. At the foot of the wall separating the living room from the kitchen was a small wooden box. It was probably the object that Jack had stubbed his toe on the previous night. He'd never seen the thing before. He looked around he noticed that one of the stones in the fireplace had been knocked loose.  
  
Jack knelt to examine the place where the stone had been. Behind it was a small alcove that seemed to fit the box just right. He wondered what the box contained. He picked it up. The wood was of such exquisite quality, the likes of which could only be found, according to his fathers, in the northern mountains. Carved on the lid, it seemed with much care, in elegant flowing script was Jack's name. Snowflakes and fractals of frost were burned into the wood around it. The box itself almost shimmered in the sunlight from the finish. He recognized the lettering as Kyle's. Jack grew even more puzzled; he had not known his father was capable of such beautiful handicraft...  
  
Jack lifted the lid and it swung up on hinges hidden from his eyes. The work on the box was masterful. The inside was lined with midnight blue velvet, a truly expensive luxury item that few could afford. He wondered how his father had come across it, especially enough to cover the entire inside surface of the box. Jack saw a smaller box inside and a folded-up scrap of parchment...  
  
 _"Jack. I had hoped I could give this to you myself, but I am old, and I do not think that the day will come while I am alive. Open this when you have found true happiness."_  
  
The slanted scrawl was familiar. It was his father Kyle's. When had his father hidden the box? He'd never been aware of its existence, nor had he noticed that his father had made it. Reading the letter, one of the last words from his father, brought fresh tears to his eyes. He wiped them away and returned the box to its alcove in the wall. Maybe he would get to open it one day, when he found true happiness, but he doubted it.  
  
*  
  
As Jack made his way out the door, Glaise was quick on his heels. "Glaise... I need you to stay here, okay?" The dog whined and sat on his haunches. "I know. But I need you to watch the farm for me." Glaise bowed his head and yipped at Jack as he walked towards the woods. "I'll be back before you know it" he called back to Glaise. The dog's bark followed Jack as he entered the treeline.  
  
Creeping tendrils of dread coiled around Jack's heart. Apprehension bubbled in his gut. What if he had misjudged the situation? What if he was walking to his death, perhaps one where he would be forever entombed in a lake of ice? There were spirits, his fathers had said, that were known to trap men in trees or in stone. Why, then, would there not be spirits that would lure and trap them in ice as well? He tried to still his frantic heart, but to no avail. Fear and attraction both made it hammer in his chest. One led him on, put one foot after the other. One made him crane his neck every so often to look back at the farmhouse that was shrinking away into the distance behind him. Soon he only saw trees behind him, and trees before him.  
  
\---  
  
Elian had found a couple of seemingly-edible beetles, a clutch of eggs, and berries that he was sure were edible. The raw eggs still felt slimy in his throat. The berries had been more bitter than sweet. The beetles were just absolutely vile. It was not a very filling meal, and he could feel his stomach rebelling against it already, but he had little choice. He had to eat or he would starve. Survival superseded luxury, he mused. He left the treeline and emerged back by the pond he'd previously abandoned. The ice on his feet had shrunk quite considerably and he was trying his best to conserve what little energy he had gained from the meagre food he'd taken.  
  
Just as he emerged into the clearing, rolling waves of intense nausea hit him. He fell to his knees, his stomach cramping, his vision swimming and blurry. He retched. The wind rustled through the leaves of the trees. He retched. His eyes almost bulged out of his head. He retched one last time and everything he had eaten made a second showing, creating a foul-smelling puddle of vomit in front of him. The noxious odour triggered another bout of retching and vomit, although this time only bile came up. Elian tried to crawl to a nearby tree to support himself. Another wave of nausea and cramps hit him and he lost consciousness before he could get to the hollow in the tree's roots.  
  
\---  
  
Jack spotted the lantern exactly where he had left it the previous night. The pond itself was vastly different from when he had last seen it. Constantly shifting floes of melting ice pebbled the pond's surface and where water met earth, frost overran vegetation. Down the middle of the pond stretched a path of ice, seemingly a bridge from one end to the other. The man he'd seen the previous night was splayed on the far side of the pond. He was fully clothed and seemed far more innocent and modest and ragged than he had in all his naked glory the previous night.  
  
Jack's breath caught in his throat. The man's hand was outstretched towards a nearby tree. What had befallen him? Though his mind rebelled against the thought of going any closer with all its might, concern and the whims of his heart would not be ignored. He steeled himself and began to walk over the bridge of ice to the other side.  
  
Jack's first step lent him no confidence. The sound of cracking ice filled the air and spindly fractures spiderwebbed through the entire structure. He breathed in deeply and set another foot on the ice. More cracks appeared underneath his feet. He put another step forward. And then another. And another. He ran across the bridge, trying to keep his balance as best as he could to the sound of cracking ice. Halfway down the ice, all hell broke loose. The cracks overtook him and the ice bridge collapsed underneath him, throwing him into the cold water.  
  
Fortunately for him, his gasp reflex kicked in before his head was underwater. The fact did little to help his situation. The water was cripplingly cold. The chill cut right into his bones. Jack broke the surface of the pond and clambered onto the ice. He drew shuddering gasps of breath and shivered in the wind that made everything much colder. He staggered to his feet and ran the rest of the way across. As he made his way onto land he peeled off his wet tunic from his torso and cast it aside.  
  
A horrible odour was coming from nearby and Jack cast a glance at where he thought it came from. There was a small drying puddle of vomit and it looked like a mixture of raw eggs, beetles, and berries. He bent down to examine it closer, holding his breath. The fiery red colour of the berries was unmistakeable. The other man had eaten firebrands. They were poisonous, but not fatal unless the person was not in the best of health. Now that he was closer to the other man, Jack didn't think healthy was a word that could be used to describe him.  
  
The blond was frightfully thin and there hung about him an aura of sickness much like the one that had surrounded his father Nyko in the days before he succumbed to the Summer Plague. Fortunately, both Jack and his other father Kyle had been spared from its onslaught. Jack knelt beside the blond and noticed instantly that his clothes were damp. Strips of cloth were wrapped around his feet and when Jack lifted them to take a closer look, his heart sank.  
  
The blond's feet were covered in all manner of bruise, blister and cut. Some were leaking pus. Many were bleeding. He hissed. The feet would have to be cleaned and sterilized and bound properly, otherwise they could get really badly infected and Jack did not know how to amputate. Jack moved up towards the blond's upper body and turned him over gently. He placed his hand on the blond's brow and instantly withdrew it. The other man was burning up.  
  
Jack's actions woke Elian who weakly tried to pull himself up, at first unaware of Jack's presence. When the haze lifted from his mind and his eyes focused on Jack's concerned ones he froze. Then his gaze roamed down and saw Jack's shirtless torso. He screamed. Bolts of ice shot from his hands but frazzled before they could reach Jack, instead breaking into shards of ice that rained on the ground. He tried to back away. Every time he would set his feet down on the ground he would cry out in agony. He didn't want to get raped again.  
  
Jack had been as much startled by the outburst as Elian had been at the realization that there was someone else with him. He had fallen on his ass when he saw the bolts of ice arcing towards him. His body had locked in total fear at that moment and he felt warm liquid pool by his thigh. He'd pissed himself. Jack held out his hand, palm open towards the blond. He was shaking, but he didn't want the blond to do any further damage to his feet. The plan didn't really work as well as he'd hoped.  
  
Elian kept backing up and hurting his feet more and more each time he did until his back hit the trunk of a tree. His eyes were wild with fear and his heart was hammering in his chest. His ice was long gone, having deserted him with the arrival of the fever that he felt like a stifling woolen blanket on his body. "Please..." he managed to say. He winced. His throat hurt. His voice was raspy and soft. His screaming had just made it worse.  
  
Jack inched closer to the blond, holding both his hands out, palm forward to Elian. It was the gesture he'd learned from his fathers when they wanted to say that they meant no harm without words. The blond did not seem to be responding to the gesture. Elian's eyes only widened as Jack drew closer. He continued trying to back away, further hurting his feet in the process. "I won't hurt you..."  
  
The brunet's words were almost foreign to Elian. If not for the fact that in the years of his travel he had picked up a decent understanding of the lingua franca in the area, he would not have understood the words. Even then, the dialect was strange and one he did not recall ever hearing. He only caught fragments of meaning. The other man was reassuring Elian that he was not going to hurt him. Elian was not convinced. Countless others before this other man had told him that they would not hurt him. Few, if any, kept their word. "Please..."  
  
Elian shivered. Despite having what he knew for sure was a fever, he was cold.  _So very cold_. He had not had any warmth recently and his ice's hunger had not been sated at all in the past week. He was sure his ice was beginning to cannibalize his body. The fever was not helping because it gave the ice more to feed on. He was going to die soon if he did not get any warmth. Even the sun was beyond helping him now. He needed fire, or another body from which to draw warmth. Anything. He didn't want to die. Sobs wracked his slight frame as he realized the insurmountable odds he faced.  
  
Jack watched the blond, concerned. It seemed that he had come down with chills. The firebrand's poison was progressing. He wasn't surprised given how unhealthy the other man looked. "I'll take care of you..." he cooed and managed to get right up beside the blond. At that point, Elian had no more energy to struggle and he just resigned himself to his fate of being raped by this man and probably dying of a fever right after.  
  
"Do with me as you would..." Elian rasped, letting his head fall to one side and closing his eyes in resignation. He sighed. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto the ground where tiny curls of frost burst from where they splashed.  
  
Jack tilted his head at the blond. The language was similar, but the dialect and accent were definitely different and he could only capture bits and pieces of what Elian had said. To him it was almost as though Elian had said "Do what you must..." He took it as an open invitation to help. The deeper meaning behind the words went over his head. Jack did not realize that Elian was practically inviting Jack to violate him.  
  
Elian was still shivering and he stiffened when he felt arms wrap around his waist. He felt himself being moved. Here it was coming. He could almost feel the blunt end of a cock being shoved up his ass. The phantom sensation was there, but his mind was simply playing cruel tricks on him. Instead what he felt was a warm embrace. Jack had drawn Elian into a tight hug. He felt warmth leech from his body as Elian's shivering began to subside.  
  
Elian sighed in relief from the heat. It was only a little, but it could tide him over for a short while. He felt the chills subside into the normal all-pervasive cold that he felt whenever he was starved of heat. He no longer felt quite so...  _hungry_.  
  
Jack was concerned. He was feeling really cold, but he held on as long as he could. It seemed to be working. The shivering had stopped and the blond's breathing had evened out. Jack knew that if anything, calming the other man down was paramout so that his body could focus its strength into fighting off the fever. What was worrying was that the blond seemed to be getting even hotter despite the chills subsiding. The blond's weak body was probably succumbing slowly to the firebrand berry, and Jack couldn't bear the thought of allowing that to happen.  
  
Elian looked up at Jack and, delirious from the fever, asked in his mother tongue "Why are you helping me?" The confused look on Jack's face confused him too. "Why are you helping me?" he said again, this time louder and more firmly. He winced. Talking hurt his throat.  
  
Jack did not really know what to do. He hushed Elian, trying to be as soothing as possible. "Don't worry." He lifted his hand to stroke Elian's hair. He hesitated and placed it back around Elian's midrift. "Everything will be alright." He said as Elian's breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.  
  
When the blond closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep, Jack whispered  _"I'll take care of you..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter! Next chapter will be out on the 14th of April. 
> 
> Here's a bit of a tease:
> 
> "As Elian was thinking about the words that the brunet had used not too long ago, a sense of long-forgotten familiarity struck him. It had been many years since, but he was almost certain about it. He _did_ know to some limited extent the dialect that Jack spoke in. "
> 
> Anyway. If you have any questions to ask of me, or just anything to tell me in general, I have a tumblr page at http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment if you like the work so far!


	3. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone~
> 
> I'd just like to take a moment to thank everyone who's taken the time to read this story, especially those who left their kudos. It means a lot, especially for a budding fanfic writer like myself.
> 
> In this chapter we see something more than just mutual distrust developing between Jack and Elian, the latter of whom begins to suspect less that Jack has ulterior motives. We also get a peek at the dark past that haunts Elian even in the shroud of dreams...

Jack's mind was a whirl of chaos and conflicting thoughts. He was embracing another man. Granted, it was not the intimate embrace after coitus that he yearned for, but he still had another man, in the flesh, in his arms. What more, he had the most beautiful man he had ever set his eyes on leaning against him, sleeping. He could hardly believe it. Where his mind could not rest on one emotion long enough to form coherent thoughts, his heart was absolutely elated, his heart soared. He could almost feal it trying to claw its way out if his chest to fly in the blue sky and be free.  
  
A flush stained his face red like a tomato, blood rushing through his cheeks and his ears. Though he knew that normally, warmth should be there, Jack felt heat being leached from his body. Despite the formidable heat that the blond's fever had reached, Jack felt heat leaving his body. He had no explanation, no reason seemed to stand for it. He shook his head. It was probably just because he was wet and the air was cold. He didn't know how else to explain the heat loss. That being said, he didn't know how exactly to explain the appearance of this mysterious blond man either.   
  
Jack brushed away an errant lock of hair that lay across the blond's face. There were scars in the stranger's pale face. They were thin and long and faded. He carefully lifted the torn tunic and saw that Elian's belly was lined with the same thin scars. They were pale enough that from afar they were not very visible, but here, up close, from over the blond's shoulder, they practically screamed for attention.   
  
Jack shuddered involuntarily. He wondered what those scars meant. He had a few of them from childhood when he would run through the woods when he felt like his parents had wronged him. Young, ignorant, stupid Jack had never once considered that there were low-hanging branches and twigs. Often, he would just run into them and end up with quite painful lacerations across his arms and legs. He looked at his forearm. On his left one of those old scars wrapped around his bicep. It was different from the ones that graced Elian's pallid skin with their grim presence. Where the blond's were straight and thin, his was ragged, thicker, and bent every which way. One thing was for sure: Elian's scars were no work of branches.  
  
Jack could not explain Elian's scars, not their shape, not their character, not their number. He'd never seen the like before. The ones on the blond's face were sporadic, etched following the curve of his flesh. The ones on Elian's body were not, varying slightly in thickness and apparent depth even as they cris-crossed over one another up along his torso. He would have to ask the mysterious man if-- No. He could not afford to think like that.   
  
Long had his parents waited for some providence of the gods. Long had he waited for some blessing, some grace, even the barest of smiles from the Gods. If this mysterious, seemingly-powerful, but seemingly-broken man was their way of giving him some chance at a happier, less lonely existence, he would not waste it, his own health be damned. No one would be dying in his arms that day. Not if he could help it.   
  
He carefully unwound his arms from Elian's waist, grimacing at the rough texture of the multitude scars that decorated the blond's flesh. As he slid his arms away from Elian's midriff, he took great care not to jostle him any more than was necessary. The last thing he wanted was for the evidently ailing young man to be woken from the slumber that seemed to afford him some calm at the very least. Nor, if the previous time that Elian had woken to Jack's presence was any indication, did he want the blond to succumb to fear and in doing so do more damage to himself.  
  
When he had freed his arms he slowly extracted himself from between Elian and the trunk of the tree, making sure that the blond could rest comfortably against the rough bark. As soon as he did, and as soon as his skin was no longer touching the blond, Jack felt warmth rush back into his body. He blinked at the sensation, and for the first time he felt the blush that had crept onto his cheeks properly. His ears felt like they were alight. They might as well were, as his entire being was lit by the flame of deepest infatuation with the blond he'd not shared more than a few words with, but only watched from afar. He averted his gaze from Elian, embarrassed that he'd done what he had. His heart had no qualms about it.  
  
Jack heard the rustle of damp cloth against barck and whipped his head back to look at the source of the sound, Elian. The blond had taken to shivering yet again and in the process had sank down lower on the tree. Jack breathed a string of profanities under his breath as he knelt before the blond and held his hand to the other man's brow. The fever was not abating, not in the least. He found his wet tunic and laid it over Elian's prone form. Though his clothes were wet and the air was cold, it was another layer to protect him from the elements. It would help for a short while, but in the end if he allowed it to stay on Elian he knew that it would only make matters worse.   
  
The brunet looked around. In the time he'd spent with the blond, a lot of the frost that had entombed the clearing was either melting or long since passed in the heat of the sun. Few glittering shards of ice remained on the placid surface of the pond, and the ground was damp with the meltwater of the thin veneer of frost that had covered it not too long ago. The frozen Blue Maids that were spread sporadically through the clearing closed up, hostile to the light of day. A disturbing sense of tranquility had begun to settle over the clearing despite the dark cloud that hung over Elian, threatening to take his life.  
  
The brunet ran around the water's edge as fast as he could, keeping his balance though the water-slicked grass was very slippery. The soaked leather around his feet felt really uncomfortable and were beginning to chafe, but if he was going to be running as fast as he was, the shoes had to remain. He skidded to a halt a little into the treeline and retrieved both the lantern and the flint and steel. The oil would help start a fire even in the cold and damp. He ran back across the pond to Elian's side. Jack grimaced as he drew closer to the sleeping man. It had almost felt like running into a wall, except that the wall was made of colder air. Elian had slid further down the tree, wracked by even more intense shivers.  
  
"This is bad..." Jack hissed as he put his hand to the blond's forehead. He drew it back immediately. Hot. Incredibly so. The fever was getting more intense. Jack had never felt a fever quite as scorching or as searing as Elian's. Even when Nyko had succumbed to the Summer Plague, his fever had not seemed quite so sweltering. Jack was at a loss, but he would do what he could to ease Elian's plight. He would do what Kyle did to leech at least some of the fever from Nyko. In that, at least, he had some knowledge. The first thing he had to do was build a fire, a task easier said than done out in the wilderness, especially where frost had just thawed and there was nary a patch of dry ground to be found.  
  
\---  
  
 _"Elian?" Elian frowned. His brother was awake again. The little bastard wasn't about to let him go to sleep, was he? "Elian wake up!" He felt a pair of small hands on his side that quickly went to work trying to shake him awake. "Eliaaan." Whining. Gods be good, his brother was whining. The brat was truly insufferable sometimes._  
  
"Go to sleep, Andrew." Elian drew the covers over his head, annoyed at the disturbance. He only wanted to sleep. The day had been fraught with enough frustrations that the last thing he needed was to stay up, dealing with his obnoxious younger brother. He'd failed to properly make a bow again. It had been the fourth time in a week. All four times, the bow had snapped when the string was drawn taught. He just wanted to drift off into the land of dreams where there were no worries or problems or frustrations. The land of the living could wait.  
  
"But I want to play with you." Elian frowned.  
  
"You've already played with me. Besides. You know mother and father say that it's wrong to do that." The blond shuddered at the thought of being caught by their parents. His father was a ruthless man, and one much steeped in the old ways. His mother was the only thing keeping the king tempered on normal days, but his anger could not be quelled. Not easily, at the very least and not without someone losing something important.  
  
"I don't want any more of your white stuff!" Good, Elian thought. He didn't think his cock could take any more abuse. At fifteen, his brother was insatiable. He remembered himself at that age, he had not quite been so libidinous. In any case, he didn't want to risk getting caught either. Andrew's insistence that he did not want to commit any incest was quite far from the normal, and jarring enough to catch Elian's attention  
  
"Then what do you mean by playing with me?" Elian said. He threw the covers off his head and raised an eyebrow at his brother who was kneeling by the headboard of the bed and shaking his shoulders. The younger grinned at him. It was that wide, toothy grin that everyone else found endearing. To Elian, though, it spelled trouble. "Go to sleep Andrew!" Whenever he saw that smile, he ended up going to bed with either a sore ass or a stinging back. He was not about to let his younger brother drag him into more trouble than he was worth.  
  
"But the sky's awake so I'm awake!" Elian perked up. He threw Andrew's hands off of him and sat up to look outside the window. And there they were. The fires of heaven danced to the music of the celestial sphere high above, shedding their divine light on the earth below. The gods were awake. A genuine smile split his face, and he felt aglow with happiness. Then he remembered there was more training to do the next day. He sighed and lay back down with his back to Andrew. The younger of the two gasped in excitement and said "... Do you want to build a snowman?"  
  
"No." Elian was not feeling very chatty, all of a sudden. The response was curt and left very little room for discussion. He drew the blanket over his head again, as though to shut out the dancing lights in the sky and the relentless pestering of his younger brother. Much as he would have loved to stay up to play under the light of the dancing sky, he had other duties now as heir apparent to the throne. The time for childish games had long since passed.  
  
"Oh come on, Elian!" Elian froze as he felt Andrew clamber on to his bed. It wasn't long before he felt the weight of the brunet on his back. "Come oooooon." His brother did not seem to have matured one bit since they were but children. Being the 'favoured one' of the gods may have had something to do with that. Where Elian was constantly being groomed and trained to be the next monarch of Vamara, Andrew was being doted upon. Where Elian was constantly reprimanded and beaten for his failures, Andrew was let go with a slap on the wrist. Sometimes he couldn't help but resent his brother for it.  
  
"No."  
  
"A snow knight, then!" Elian's eyes widened in the darkness under his blanket.  
  
"..."  
  
"Elian?"  
  
Elian growled and threw the covers off of himself. Snowmen may have gotten him excited when they were children, but they were older now, and more mature. Or so, at least, he fancied the thought that he was more mature. To that end, Elian had more mature needs now too. There had _been a knight in his father's court that he'd been fancying for quite a while now... He turned to Andrew and said "... You better not tell mother and father about this" before jumping out of bed much to the excitement of the younger._  
  
\---  
  
The sight that met the brunet as he returned to the clearing sent shards of fear into his heart. The air was significantly colder and frost spiralled up the trunk of the tree that Elian rested upon. Delicate fractals of ice spiderwebbed across the roots of the tree and onto the ground and up the blades of grass. Jack set down the bundle of twigs and branches that he'd gone out to collect and made his way to Elian's side. The fever was burning even hotter than it was when he'd left to gather wood for a fire.  
  
Jack quickly went to work. He had to act fast. He ran around the pond to the streambed and picked up a handful of smooth stones for a makeshift firepit. He stacked the wood inside the ring of stones and dribbled some of the lamp oil onto it before striking the flint. The oil caught fire instantly and the stack of wood crackled merrily. The brunet breathed a sigh of relief as the shivering that continued to ravage Elian's body seemed to momentarily subside. Much to Jack's consternation, without so much as a gust of wind, the fire guttered and died as it reached its peak.  
  
Jack fumbled for the flint and steel and struck it again. Relief spread through his veins when the little tongues of fire began to dance upon the wood again. Reds and oranges and yellows crackled and popped and embers rose from the flames. The wood itself seemed to come alive, glowing in some places from the heat. The gouts of fire leaped higher and higher, but when they reached their peak, they sputtered and were no more. Jack held his hand out and touched the wood, even the twigs that had been burning mere moments ago were cold and damp as the rest of the damnable clearing.  
  
The brunet pushed himself to his feet. Perhaps the fire was simply too small. Perhaps the strange blond was himself sucking the heat from the flames. It would certainly explain why Jack had felt himself getting inexorably colder when their skin was in contact. Jack walked over to Elian and took his still-damp shirt from the blond's torso. It was almost freezing cold. He picked up an oil-soaked branch from the pile and walked a ways away towards the water's edge. There he wrapped the bottom of the branch with his shirt to give him purchase and struck the flint onto it.  
  
It blazed into life just fine. Even the cold wind that blew then, caressing his face with its bony fingers could not quench the fire that was burning on the wood. There was only one way for Jack to find out if Elian was indeed sapping the heat from the fire. He took a step closer. Nothing. Another. Nothing. Onward he went until finally he stood abreast his makeshift firepit. Only then did the flame die, leaving Jack with but a cold, fireless branch in his hands.  
  
If a small fire could not sustain itself in Elian's presence, then perhaps a bigger one could. Jack needed more firewood, but to journey back to the farmhouse would take far too much time. He pondered the dilemma for a few minutes, never once taking his eyes off of the prone, shivering form of Elian as he slid further down the tree. It was as Jack was moving Elian back up into a more comfortable position that the epiphany hit him like a load of bricks. He had taken a fairly well-crafted blade from one of the men he'd scared off yesterday. He could probably use it to obtain more branches for the fire. It was only a matter of finding his pack and the blade again.  
  
Jack prayed to the gods that Elian be safe for but a little while longer. They'd seen it fit to allow the blond to enter his life, he reasoned, so they should see it fit to allow Elian to live but a few hours more so Jack could save him.  
  
\---  
  
 _"No..." Elian took a single step towards Andrew. The brunet was lying unconscious on a nearby snowbank. "No. No. No. No!" There was blood everywhere. Ice was beginning to creep up the walls and the marble pillars around them. This frost wasn't the beautiful latticework that normally characterized his ice. This ice was deadly. It was sharp. It was chaotic. Spindles of darker ice intertwined with the white and sharp stalagmites rose from the floor around him._  
  
The door to the ballroom swung open with a resounding boom. Elian froze. So did all the creeping ice. The snowflakes that were falling from the ceiling themselves stopped in midair. His eyes met his father's, and the king's eyes burned with a fury he had never before seen. Elian took a step backwards. The king's hand was on his sword. He took another one backwards. "How dare _you?" the king's voice was low and menacing._  
  
Elian's mother looked at him. He locked eyes with her. A fleeting apparition of sympathy was reflected in her eyes. The mother and her son, her dear, cursed son shared their eyes, but no more in either countenance or courage. As soon as it had come, the sympathy was gone, replaced with cold distance. She knew better than to get in the way of her husband. Elian was in deep trouble, if not life-threatening peril.  
  
He turned tail and ran. The ice on the floor where he stepped became thicker and more jagged. Gone were the hexagonal designs, things of beauty by their own right, made more beautiful still by the way that Elian's ice sparkled even in the absence of light. They were replaced with jagged edges, sharp ridges and reasonless, rhymeless patterns spiderwebbed with cracks and blacker ice.   
  
The snowflakes that had been suspended in the air grew heavy and began to fall as cold hard balls of ice. The wind whipped about in a frenzy and the entire ballroom was enveloped in a raging blizzard of snow and hail that followed Elian all the way out through the halls and through the palace gates. The palace-guard tried to follow and stop him on the king's demand but they could not see the heir apparent as he ran across the fjord, enveloped by the raging winter storm.  
  
\---  
  
After a good ten minutes looking for the accursed thing, Jack finally found the pack and retrieved it with the curved blade that the men from the previous day had left behind. He couldn't help but imagine what the men would have done with the blond that he was trying to care for had they been able to find him. He was convinced without a doubt that they were after the strange man, though their reason for doing so, he found quite hard to believe. There was nothing about the blond that indicated he was capable of murder. Nothing in that cowering countenance, and in that look of absolute, enveloping fear, that spoke of even slightest villainy.  
  
Jack supposed that they were similar in that regard. He'd given the matter a lot of thought. His parents, confident and inspiring men as they were for the young Jack Frost, lived haunted lives. They also lived like they were being hunted. All his life, Jack had only known the fear of his parents. All his life, he'd been convinced that it was the one thing ensuring their survival. Trust no one but family, no one but people like us, Nyko would often tell him. It was true. Kyle had had a younger cousin whose life was brutally taken when he made a wrong move on one of the men of the village. Brutally raped, then beaten to an inch of his life before being raped again and finally being lynched and given no proper burial.  
  
Jack made his way back to the stream and the pond. He hefted the rucksack onto his shoulder and swung the curved blade through the trees whenever he found a decent branch that he thought would do well for a fire. As he walked, he mused. There was little to worry about in the forests surrounding the farm. Wolves stayed far away. Bears would have nothing to do with him or his parents. Jack never found it strange. For him it was simply a fact of life that the beasts of the forest were afraid of them.   
  
Perpetual fear was all that Jack had ever known. Fear for his life. Fear for his parents' lives. Fear that should anyone ever know what he truly was, they would find him and kill him. He thought about how Elian had reacted to him. Even the kindness he'd shown seemed to terrify the young blond. What brutality, what cold-bloodedness had the mysterious young man seen in his life that caused him to suspect even sincere kindness of ulterior motive? It was simply not right, Jack thought, that such a beautiful and seemingly innocent creature seemed to be so broken.   
  
When he arrived at the pond, he had an armful of branches that would certainly make for a bigger fire. Jack set the wood down by the old firepit and made his way back to the stream to pick up more stones. He took apart the other firepit and set the pile of wood aside carefully. He created a larger ring of stones a little further away from Elian than the old pit had been and began to pile the wood there, hacking the longer branches in halves or thirds to fit in the circle of stones. As he was doing this Jack heard a strangled yelp from nearby. Elian was awake.  
  
Jack slowly put down the blade and raised his hands in a gesture of good faith. He was thankful that he had had the presence of mind to put down the quite formidable weapon. The blond was scared enough as it was. He did not need a half-naked man with a quite fearsome curved-blade approaching him. Jack imagined that if he was in the same situation, the very visage of himself would probably have made him lash out in fear.  
  
Elian just cowered by the tree trunk. He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and useless. His feet were burning temples of agony. His entire body felt sapped of energy, and he felt a chill in his bones he'd never known before in his life. The poison-induced fever was quickly ravaging Elian's body and he had little time left before he succumbed to a long sleep after three days of which would send him falling into a deeper, more eternal slumber. Jack approached the blond. "Don't worry..." He hesitated. "I'll take care of you."  
  
"Why?" Elian croaked. "Why do you do this?" The blond's voice was hoarse and his throat felt dry and parched. The fever did not help.  
  
Jack did not entirely understand the question. Elian's accent was thick and the dialect not entirely familiar. "Fire." He said, gesturing to the pile of wood behind him. Simplicity would be best, he guessed, in communicating with the strange man. He reached up at Elian's face and brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over the blond's eyes again. It was an almost-affectionate gesture, one that took both young men by surprise.  
  
Elian worked his throat as best he could, trying to imitate Jack's words to the greatest extent. What he said came out slow and foreign-sounding. "Feer?" Jack smiled and nodded. It was close enough. Elian leaned his head back. Was this strange brunet going to build a fire? It had been so long since he'd felt the life-giving warmth of a burning coal, let alone a proper fire. When he had not been running, he was too busy hiding to make a fire. It was too risky. The smoke would get him seen, and if not, the ashes the next day would lead his pursuers right to him.  
  
When the pure terror left the blond's eyes only to be replaced by a guarded wariness, Jack went back to the firepit. He cut the final branches down to size and tossed them onto the pile of wood before pouring more oil from the lamp onto them. It was the last of his oil in that lamp and it would have to do. He took the flint and steel from his side and noticed Elian's eyes follow it with a strange look of ravenous hunger. Jack shivered. The expression on Elian's face was inhuman, almost desperate.  
  
Jack struck the flint against the steel and red-hot sparks jumped from the rock. Elian's eyes followed them as they arced through the chill of the air and landed on the oil. Jack had put significantly more oil on this new pile of wood and it leaped up in flames almost instantly. Elian made a sound that Jack could only describe as a moan of relief and pleasure as soon as the wave of heat hit him. The sound struck something primal inside of Jack that sent shivers of pleasure down his back and into his manhood. The blond stared at the rolling tongues of fire as they lapped at the wood in an enchanting dance. Reds and yellows and oranges eating away the essence of the wood and turning it into glorious, glorious warmth. Elian revelled in it.  
  
Jack cleared his throat. The sound caught Elian's attention. Sapphire eyes met agate and a spark of understanding jumped between them. The tension in Elian's shoulders subsided for but a moment, allowing the brunet some measure of trust for an instant. Jack raised his hand and the motion drew Elian's gaze. He gestured at himself, placing his palm over his chest and said "Jack."  
  
Elian tried his best to repeat the word. There was a niggling feeling of familiarity with the dialect at the back of his consciousness, but with the haze of the fever drawn over his mind, he could not give it form. He mouthed "Zhayck?" Jack shook his head. "Zhack?" With each word the feeling of familiarity grew, but so did the consternation Elian felt at not being able to pinpoint its cause. The blond frowned.  
  
Jack moved his head from side to side and repeated himself, more slowly this time. "Jack."  
  
"Jeck?"  
  
"Jack." Jack couldn't help the hint of exasperation that crept into his voice as he repeated himself for the third time. Do not be so hasty, he reprimanded himself. Do not allow your impatience to ruin what hasn't had a chance to grow yet.  
  
"Jack."  
  
Elian nodded, pleased with himself. He was certain he'd learned Jack's name as best as he could. He raised a trembling hand to his chest with much difficulty. His body felt lethargic, unresponsive and heavy. It was almost as though the very air around him had turned to jelly. "Elian." There was no mispronouncing his own name, this time. Elian said his name in his mother tongue, as it should be said. Jack, knowledgeable as he was in  _his_  mother tongue found the syllables alien but distantly familiar. A small smile danced on Elian's lips as the brunet tried to speak his name properly. It was the first genuine smile that he'd had in a long time.  
  
Finally, Jack settled on something that sounded more akin to "Helian," but the blond decided it was close enough. Jack gestured with his hands, raising them in front of him and pulling them in. "Helian, come," he said. The blond nodded and tried to get up. He roared in pain as he set his feet down. They weren't any better. Jack ran over and saw that the wounds had opened again and were bleeding. He grabbed the strips of cloth from Elian's feet and ran to the water to wash them. They would have to do for the time being.  
  
Jack sprinted back to Elian's side, almost tripping over his own feet. "Here. This help." He wrapped the strips tightly around the blond's feet, making sure that they formed a tight seal. If anything, the cloth should help stem the bleeding and prevent the wounds from opening again. Jack placed his palm against Elian's forehead. He muttered quick thanks to the gods. The fever, while still burning quite savagely, seemed to have been tempered for the while at least.  
  
Elian couldn't help but wince as Jack went to work on his feet. He knew it was for the better, but he wished it was not quite so painful. In the back of Elian's mind, his survival instinct continued to prod at him, and the fear of Jack would never quite leave his heart despite the brunet having done nothing to cause him distress. In fact, he thought as Jack placed his palm on the blond's forehead, the brunet had done nothing but show him kindness the whole time. What did he have to fear? Everything, his mind told him. Nothing, his heart replied.  
  
Jack could feel the fear radiating from Elian in the way that the other young man would shrink away from him whenever he got too close. He could almost feel the gaze of the blond wander every so often as though to look for possible escape routes. He couldn't blame Elian, though. He knew that even he would be afraid after being chased for so long, so relentlessly by a group of men so eager to find him dead. He would probably not trust anyone. Though it still made little sense to Jack why anyone would be suspicious of what seemed to be genuine kindness.   
  
Elian made a muffled sound of protest when Jack slipped an arm under his knees and threw one of the his arms over the brunet's shoulder. With a grunt he lifted the thin blond into his arms and brought him over by the fire. The flames sputtered worryingly for a short while, but they held strong. Jack breathed a sigh of relief and knelt to set Elian down gently, taking great care not to accidentally place the blond's feet on the ground. He had never experienced such injury, but from the sounds and faces Elian made whenever he put his feet down, he could only imagine that they were pure agony.  
  
Jack walked over to the rucksack that contained the cloak he'd made for the sole purpose of scaring away trespassers on his land and drew it out. Never, he mused, did he imagine that it would be used to care for one such trespasser, beautiful though and innocent as Elian was. In the back of Jack's mind, old instincts still told him to scare the blond away. Fortunately for the other young man, Jack ignored the small voice in his head. He took the coat and laid it on top of Elian's prone form as he lay watching the fire dance. "Warm?" he asked. Elian nodded.  
  
"Helian..." Jack began. He needed to return to the farmhouse to grab all manner of implements he needed to take care of Elian with. Even so, he knew he would have to take Elian home if he wanted to do the best he could and make sure the blond returned to good health. "Wait here. I return later." The blond's eyes swam with a twinge of fear at being left alone again. Elian couldn't quite reason with the turmoil raging inside him. His mind was relieved that the threat was leaving, but his heart quivered in fear at being left alone. Jack didn't need Elian to say a thing. He could see it in Elian's eyes. "I promise."  
  
Elian nodded and closed his eyes. A single tear fell from the corner of the blond's eyes as Jack grabbed his rucksack and made for the stream, oblivious to the bead of salty water that left a glistening trail down Elian's cheek. He would be back before Elian knew it, and hopefully, with everything he needed to ensure that the blond would at least survive the trip to the farmhouse.  
  
\---  
  
 _Elian's eyes were wide with wonder as they followed the tower up into the clouds. It was made of pure ice, but the architecture was flowing and beautiful. Could his own ice create such beauty? He shuddered, remembering the damage he'd done. His ice was capable of no such grandeur. No such wonder. It could only, as he'd witnessed, destroy not only his life, but the lives of people he cared about._  
  
A woman appeared in the crystalline archway that was the entrance to the tower. She was tall and her hair was the same platinum blonde as Elian's, though silvery-gray streaks ran down the length of it. She seemed old, ancient, almost, but it was purely because of her bearing and the depth of wisdom that was palpable in her stark gray eyes. Her face held no trace of the years. Her cheekbones were high and prominent and her jawline was strong as any man's he'd ever seen. She was neither beautiful nor ugly. She just...  _was_.  
  
She beckoned to him with a finger and he could not help but follow her in. A cape of ice crystals hung about her shoulders and an icy white gown covered her thin form. The cloth that itself seemed fashioned from ice like the rest of the grand tower, swished with her every move. "Another lost one finds his way to us... Perhaps you'll be so kind as to stay with my children and myself unlike the others?" Elian had no answer.  
  
*  
  
"I had so hoped you would stay with us, my dear, but I understand." Elian sat by the warmth of a blazing fireplace, the only thing made of stone in the entire structure. The woman sat in a chair that rocked back and forth, her cape folded neatly in her lap. "I understand that there are wrongs you must see righted back home. I had hoped you would stay. My eldest seems to have taken quite a liking to you."  
  
Elian had the decency to blush as the eldest son in question stepped into the room. "I have taken quite a liking to him myself, my lady Elesyne, but I've apologies and penances to make." He could see the other young man's face drop.  _"And a prison sentence if not execution to face,"_  he thought to himself. He shot an apologetic glance to the eldest of Elesyne's thirteen sons. He got a pleading one back. The look sent shivers down Elian's spine. "I'm sorry, Vard."  
  
"Mother can I not escort him back to Vamara?" Elian's eyes widened. The last thing he wanted was for the other young man to accompany him to into the clutches of his father. He was sure that any of those that were deemed to have sheltered or in any way assisted him would share in his woes and the punishment that his father would no doubt force upon him.   
  
Elian felt the lady Elesyne's eyes on him, weighing the odds in her mind. Surely she'd heard of the cruelty of the Vampiri king. Surely she'd heard tell of the harsh, just but gruesome way he kept the peace. Surely she'd heard tell of how even the very birds of carrion that swarmed high above any and all bloodshed in the world of men would flee in fear of Akthar the Bloody whenever he strode onto the field. If Vard came with him to Vamara, the young man may never again see the grand tower of ice by the light of the world of the living.  
  
"Lady Elesyne, I've no need for an escort." The lady raised her eyebrow at Elian. "My father would not take kindly to any who would return with me, I am sure of it."  
  
"I need none of your protection, Elian. I can take care of myself." Elian averted his eyes. "I want only to see you home by your side. No more. Then I shall return here, to mine."  
  
"You fail to understand, my father is a ruthless man. There is no reasoning with him."  
  
"Then stay here with us if he'll offer you neither mercy nor reprieve."  
  
"I know what I face, but I must know how my brother does. I must know if he still lives. For that I must return home."  
  
"Then you two have my blessing. Go with the speed of the north winds my dears." Lady Elesyne straightened from her chair and beckoned the two to come to her. They did. "But remember, children, don't let your ice show. Don't ever let anyone but those dearest to you know. Now, Elian..." She cupped the side of his face. "Vard will take you to the hot springs. Bathe and make yourself well for tonight we feast and come the first of morning light, your journey for Vamara begins."  
  
*  
  
He'd returned to see not the summer kingdom he'd come to know and love, not the waves crashing upon the sandy shores of the fjord, not the seagulls circling above and crying in the heat of day. Elian had come back to a land covered in snow and ice with swirling storms of frost and cold biting winds. Vamara was a changed place.  
  
There was a knock on his door. Elian looked up meaningfully at his captor. The man jerked his head towards the door. "Elian?" It was Andrew. "Elian do you want to build a snowman?" He bit his lip. There was a reason the two brothers had been kept apart since his return. "Oooh. How about a snow knight? Come on, I know you like them..." His captor squeezed his arm roughly. He looked down and saw red weals where the calloused fingers had gripped him.  
  
"Go away, Andrew."  
  
"Okay bye." The soft voice of his brother drifted in through the door. Had he forgotten what Elian had done to him? What Elian's curse had caused him to lose? Or did he simply love his brother so, and in a way far more than was right for brothers, that forgiveness visited his heart so quickly, so easily? Day after day he'd come to Elian's room, begging to spend time together. Day after day, Elian had refused him with all manner of profanity, anger, indifference. Yet day after day, Andrew returned, ever hopeful.  
  
The whip cracked and Elian bit his lip to not cry out in pain. He'd bitten down so hard that his lip was bleeding. The blood trickled down the side of his chin, adding another layer to the caked blood that already clung there.  
  
A single tear ran down his face. Vard was dead.  
  
\---  
  
When Elian returned to the land of the living from the land of dreams, Jack had yet to return. Rolling waves of luscious heat rolled over the prone blond. He revelled in them. Relished them, even. When his powers had manifested, a hunger had awakened in him that he had been fighting ever since. Only the warmth of another body beside his, or that of the noonday sun, or the heat of a roaring fire could sate the hunger he felt in the pit of his stomach that no food, grand as it might be, could.  
  
Elian watched the fire crackle merrily beside him. It was noticeably smaller than it had been when he'd succumbed to the dream. Still, fire never ceased to enchant him. It danced in such an elegant and mysterious way that it seemed almost joyful. He had no illusions that fire was by any means a creature of joy and light. Just like ice, it wrought destruction too, should it be unshackled by the will of man. The ice inside of him would have destroyed everything he'd come across if he himself had not existed as its guide, as its shaper, and ultimately, as its jailor.  
  
The blond averted his gaze from the dancing tongues of flame, comforted by the reds and yellows and oranges that flitted in the corner of his vision and the glowing embers that rose and swam about in the air above the crackling fire. He stared at the sky. It had been a long time since he had last just seen that vast expanse of blue. There was nary a cloud in that boundless canvas, only the brass disc of the sun hung there, shining brightly onto the earth.  
  
Elian thought about Jack. The young brunet had come completely out of nowhere and helped the blond, despite not having known or met or even seen him before. With the state of his feet and prior experience that crawling did very little to help escape anyone, Elian was decidedly stuck with Jack. He thought about the strange brunet and why he was showing such kindness. It was probably because he wanted something from Elian. He was used enough to having to work for brothels that anything sexual would be a simple enough matter, but if it was anything more than that, he did not know what else to do.  
  
The blond pondered the situation. If he was to make sure that he got out of it alive, he had to be able to communicate with Jack better. He considered hand signals, but given that they were evidently from different places, some signals would probably mean different things. Maybe he could learn the dialect that Jack spoke. Stupid thought, he told himself, learning dialects took a lot of time. Time was the one commodity he did not himself have.  
  
As Elian was thinking about the words that the brunet had used not too long ago, that sense of long-forgotten familiarity struck him again. It had been many years since, but he was almost certain about it, now. He  _did_  know to some limited extent the dialect that Jack spoke in. It was not Vampiri, certainly. His mother tongue had very little in the way of guttural syllables and Vampiri was very rarely spoken outside the nation of Vamara.  
  
In olden times, though, as he remembered the tales most oft recounted in the tomes of their expansive libraries in the palace, the nation of Vamara was a vast sprawling empire that extended beyond the sea to lands no longer known to living memory, but instead existed only in the depths of myth and legend. If that was the truth, then the common tongue here, in the land beyond the waters that fed the fjords of Vamara, would have been exposed to Vampiri. He remembered his first years across the sea. He'd lived in a small fishing village until he was no longer able to hide his ice. They spoke a mongrel tongue, a grotesque corruption of Vampiri, but it was at times familiar enough that Elian could understand significant fragments and eventually learn the tongue itself. Though whether he'd truly been successful was a debatable idea as he'd been the butt of all the small community's jokes.  
  
Jack seemed to speak a further corruption of that mongrel tongue, one influenced by the common tongue of settlements further inland. His accent also seemed to carry with it traces of High Vampiri, though Elian dismissed it as simple coincidence. No wonder Jack's words had seemed so alien to Elian at first when truly it was but a twisted form of what he already knew. Though it had been years since he last spoke a word of that mongrel tongue, he hoped that the knowledge would come back to him.  
  
Elian's stomach growled, distracting him from his thoughts. It was a deep, guttural, animalistic growl that only meant one thing: his body hungered. In his state, he doubted he could move much to find anything more in the woods to eat. Nor did he think he would be able to find anything safe for eating in the woods either. He had good reason to suspect that his current state of health could be blamed on flora that he'd thought was safe to eat but was not. Not to mention, the state of his feet did very little for his motivation to get up and about.  
  
Had Jack not been around to help him and to build a fire that provided much needed heat to keep his life-sustaining faculties working, he would have probably died. Even so, he could feel infection rearing its ugly head inside of him. His feet had gone uncleaned for too long. If they weren't cleaned and soon, the infection might quickly and voraciously eat his body and his life. He was about to drift off again when he felt it: little things crawling about in the cloak that was covering him.  
  
Weakly, Elian lifted a hand and raised the cloak a bit to find his chest covered in wriggling maggots. Why there were maggots in Jack's cloak, he didn't know. The lad had seemed kempt enough. Jack had not seemed dirty at all. The maggots were a mystery. Perhaps even a life-saving mystery. He picked one of them up and considered it for a short while. His stomach rebelled at the thought, but he had very little choice. He'd eaten worse.  
  
The tiny white worm wriggled in Elian's pallid fingers. To the old Elian who'd lived in the lap of luxury in the palace of one of the last remaining remnants of the old Vampiri empire, the maggot would have been absolutely revolting. To this Elian, changed by years of ostracism and hardship and getting chased from one place to the next, the maggot was heavenly. He placed it in his mouth and bit down. The thing burst into a conflagration of grainy bitterness. Despite the less-than-palatable taste, Elian picked up another. And another. And another. There were many, and he supposed he could fill his stomach up with enough to tide him through the next few hours.  
  
\---  
  
Elian very nearly jumped from his own skin when he heard the muffled galloping of horses and the barking of a dog. Here it was. The end was nigh. His trackers had finally found him. Terror, and, strangely enough, some sort of satisfaction bubbled up in his consciousness. Was he satisfied that he had finally learned that the world was not all as terrible as he'd seen it to be? That there had been at least one soul whom, despite the evident display of his command over winter's domain, had not fled screaming or come after him yelling ugly death, but rather helped him in his hour of greatest need?  
  
It wasn't until a few moments later that Elian realized that the men that had pursued him from the last village were stupid enough to not bring any horses with them. They had not brought a dog either. Had they done so, they would probably have run down Elian the moment his shoes gave out. That being said, the men were dull as rocks for not bringing anything but the clothes on their backs and themselves. Jack burst from the foliage, leading two horses behind him and an ecstatic bundle of white fur came leaping out not far behind. "Hold on, Glaise. We don't want to cause him unnecessary distress." Jack's hushed voice still carried clearly across the pond which by now held very little ice, the rest of it having melted back into the water.  
  
Jack led the horses up towards Elian. The dog, whom he supposed was Glaise, bounded towards the blond, yipping enthusiastically as he did. "Glaise." Jack said sternly. The dog stopped in his tracks and whined. "Be calm, boy." The accent was still a tad difficult for Elian to decipher, but now that he knew where it was from and what the dialect was similar to, he was able to understand it better. Jack tied the horses' reins to a nearby tree and slung the pack off of his shoulders before sitting down next to Elian's head.  
  
The brunet reached down and wiped away the white remains of maggots from the corners of Elian's mouth. He brought his hand to his face and sniffed it. Disgust contorted Jack's kindly face, eliciting a chuckle from Elian. Jack was stunned. The blond's laugh, while far from musical as he had come to expect from such a beautiful creature, was innocent and sincere. Judging from the fear that he'd seen from Elian at their first meeting, he'd not thought that the blond would laugh so freely around him. Nevertheless, he was not about to complain.  
  
Elian himself was quite surprised that the laugh escaped his lips so freely. He'd not himself known that his lips still recalled the sensation of laughter. He knew his mind did not. His had been a grim existence for the last few years, yet somehow, for some unfathomable reason, Jack brought unexpected and much-needed levity to his life. Perhaps it was the horses. Perhaps it was the fever. Perhaps it was the admittedly-adorable dog that Jack had brought with him. Perhaps it was the indubitable kindness and sincerity that the brunet possessed that allowed Elian to be more open than he had ever been in a long, long time.  
  
Elian spoke in short stunted bursts. The words left his mouth as though entirely alien to him. They might as well were since he'd not spoken the dialect in years. "Maggots." He said. "I was hungry." A look of disgust crossed Jack's face. "A week makes even the disgusting look delicious." Jack's face lit up. Though Elian spoke slowly and sounded quite strange and cryptic, the brunet was able to understand him more this time. The disgust was still visible in his tawny eyes, but the elation was far more evident.  
  
"I brought food" Jack said as he took a hold of Elian's shoulders and pushed him up into a sitting position with his legs outstretched in front of him. He reached into his pack and pulled out dried meat, bread and cheese as well as a skin. "Water." Jack said when Elian raised an eyebrow. He couldn't afford wine. Even his fathers only bought and drank on very special days. Since Nyko's death, Kyle had not bought any.  
  
Elian stared at the food, wide-eyed. For the first time in months, his mouth truly watered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I know there are some quite-twisty bits to it. I sincerely believe that I have to add a few more tags to the story, but nevertheless, I sincerely hope that you had fun reading this chapter.
> 
> I know I'm sounding like a broken record at this point, but I would really really really like to hear from you if you read this story. Nothing delights me more than reading comments because I want to know if there's anything I can improve, or maybe work on. I also want to know how you feel about the story, the characters, and what your hopes are for them so far!
> 
> So please, if you have time, comment, because I will definitely enjoy them. If you don't have time, then leave a kudos if you liked what you read. Any feedback is appreciated.
> 
> If you have any questions about the series in general you can ask me on tumblr at [Clandestine Gales](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	4. The Winterchild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to another chapter. I hope you enjoy this one since we get to see another perspective, for a short while at least.
> 
> Jack and Elian are as conflicted about each other as ever, though!

Four men stumbled into the one establishment hospitable to outsiders in the entire village: the tavern. It was a place of either drunken debauchery or a place of drowning sorrows in a tankard of ale or three. The owner was a portly man who made a lot of his money off of the misery of the repressed townspeople. They were always commanded and constantly reminded of their inferiority by the elite clerical caste that shrouded themselves in mystery in the one stone-built structure in the entire damned place.   
  
The Sun Priests were not, by any stretch of the imagination, virtuous and pious people. The abuse of their power was well-known in the village. Despite this knowledge, they had all been beaten into submission by the religious propaganda that they were fed from birth. They were of the belief that any actions against the priests would bring the wrath of the sun gods upon them. The gods' ire would dry their fields, bring pestilence to their livestock and bring fire to their skin and their very homes.  
  
Money or food given up freely were considered gifts by the gods, and giving enough every year would ascertain their good graces, or so the priests had the townspeople believing. Any of the studied in their cities and academies and courts would know better than to fall for the scam, but the commonfolk were ignorant of the priests' deception. Theirs was a hard and difficult life, after all, and so they clung on to every single assurance that things could be much better for them, despite the blatant untruth of the meaningless comforts offered by the priests.   
  
Long lost was the worship of the old gods who, while they offered little in the way of solace, at the very least offered reward for those who lived their lives as they saw as fit and virtuous. The sun gods were not as kind. The sun gods prescribed certain ways of life and denounced any and all others as abominable and detestable. There was simply no other way to live by than theirs. This was the corruption that had gripped the heart of the new world since the fall of the old one, and this was the source of all the woes that Elian and Jack and others of their kind faced.  
  
The four men eventually found their way to the counter of the bar. The rest of the room was filled to the brim. It seemed that they had come at quite a busy time of day, at a time of year that was beginning to see travelers and merchants from the northern mountains descend from their wintry abodes to trade with the folk of the lower lands. As a result the place was packed and lodging was difficult to find. The inn down the road from the tavern was filled to its rafters with weary travelers.   
  
The rest of them stayed in the tavern, drinking away their woes until the time came for them to get back on the road to more important places. An advantage of their passing through the town before major cities, though, was the fact that the traders had very little in the way of coin. A lot of them paid in kegs of wine from the vineyards of the northern mountains. Oh it was glorious, the finest vintage known to the men of the village, for they'd not tasted the wines of the kings' courts.   
  
The four men sat by the bar. They were miserable fellows, all four of them. They were even more so now that their clothes seemed to be torn haphazardly and their hair was tangled with twigs and leaves and they were banged up and beaten from running into trees and branches in their frantic escape from the forest that they had been tracking their quarry in. A bard was playing his lute at the other end of the counter, barely audible over the cacophony of the crowded tavern. "'Ow can I 'elp you gentlemen?" said the master of the Tavern, waddling in his characteristic way to the four men who looked like they'd seen death.  
  
"A drink or two for me and these idiots" said the man who led the small ragtag troupe. "We met trouble on our way here. We did not know plague hurlers treaded the earth in these forests." One of the men made a groaning sound and slumped over onto the counter, slamming his forehead into the solid wood.  
  
"'e alright?" The landlord jerked his head and his thumb at the unconscious fellow.  
  
"Aye. Just weak of heart" said one of the other men. "Mention plague hurlers to him and he passes right the fuck out like a puss." He chuckled, the rich baritone of his voice carrying clearly across the counter.  
  
"What are these Plague 'urlers you speak of?" said the landlord as he beckoned over one of the servergirls and asked for four tankards of ale. "Never 'eard of them."  
  
"Terrible creatures. Terrible, terrible creatures. Tristan here didn't even believe they existed when we first left our village." One of the men pointed at their leader. "But we saw one in the forest, yes. It threw its godsforsaken innards at us. Thankfully none of us have come down with the Plague, but I think it's just because the gods were looking after us. Gram used to say that if they ever caught up to you they would eat your innards while you were alive and your soul with them and leave you a hollowed out husk for the rest of your life. She said that if it can't catch up to you, it would give you the plague instead. Either way seeing one was almost certain death."  
  
The landlord slammed the tankards in front of each of the men, rousing the unconscious one in the process. He eyed each and every one of them, a stern look in his eyes. The message was clear. He didn't want any trouble brought to his establishment. It was trouble enough having to deal with all the tired travelers who could not find lodgings in the inn. He did not need anyone getting sick and dying in his tavern. The ale swished inside the wrought iron things, almost threatening to spill out. "Why'd you come 'ere then? Why din't you just 'ead on 'ome if you saw something so 'orrifying?"  
  
The most ragged of the men, their leader, slammed his fist onto the counter, drawing the attention of a portly woman nearby who came to stand by the men with her fist on her hip. "Because we came after something even worse and I'll be damned if we returned home without its head" said Tristan, his teeth gritted together in seething rage. The landlord raised his eyebrow.  
  
"What could be worse than a 'eathen creature that eats your innards and leaves you a soulless 'usk?" The landlord inquired, pulling up a stool and now rapt with interest with the men's story. The bard, unable to help hearing the conversation had sidled up closer to the group.  
  
"Winter" said Tristan. The bard's eyes lit up. "A faggot whose hands control the powers of Winter itself. He's pale like a ghost and thin and bolts of ice shoot out of his hands and freeze everything they touch to death. He killed my wife, and my neighbour said that the beast tried to make off with his son too." The woman gasped. Faggots, as the commonfolk knew them, to begin with were freaks of nature, abominations, according to the priests. One with dominion over Winter itself was almost too much, if not for the fact that they had heard the story before.  
  
"Well, wouldya believe it, Jun, dear, 'arold was telling the truth!" The landlord said to the woman standing behind the men. The bard smiled at the two of them.  
  
"I tried telling them of this creature you speak of" said the bard to the men. "But they would not believe me. Many thanks for coming and telling us this fascinating tale. I may know things about this creature that you may find helpful or at the very least, interesting."  
  
"What  _is_  he, then?" asked Tristan gruffly as he glugged down ale.  
  
"People from the villages I've been to call him the  _winterchild_ "  
  
\---  
  
Much as the old Elian may have considered it undignified, he tore into the food like a famished bear. There was little if any dignity in the fight for survival, so he had long since thrown away his preconceptions of propriety and nobility. The scene of the crime was surprisingly less messy than one would anticipate. Elian, for one, grabbed at every single crumb that fell off from the loaves, leaving himself particularly clean, despite the gusto with which he ravaged the food that Jack had brought. The meal was a humble one, and there wasn't much of it, but Jack found himself having to remind Elian more than a few times to take it easy lest he chuck all of it up again.  
  
Elian inadvertently set down one of his feet on the ground when he took the skin from jack and drank a good long draught of the cool water within it. He sputtered and coughed, having winced and as a result, inhaled some of the water due to the pain. Jack smacked the blond on the back repeatedly with the heel of his palm until the coughing stopped. Elian's eyes were watery at the end of the ordeal.  
  
Taking the utmost of care, Jack knelt by Elian's feet and slowly unwound the strips of cloth that worked as makeshift bandages there. He hissed. The cloth was soaked in a stomach-turning mixture of blood and pus. The sight was so disgusting that the sound of Elian gagging was clearly audible. Jack tossed away the makeshift bandages and gently handled Elian's feet to take a better look. The blond hissed in pain. Even the lightest touch was painful for him. The lesions and blisters on Elian's feet were open and bleeding freely. Jack reached into his pack and brought out a roll of linen and laid Elian's ankles on it so that they wouldn't be at risk of falling to the ground. "I'll be back. I need to gather herbs."  
  
Jack rose and brought out a couple of smooth, dark stones from his pack and carefully placed them in the fire. "I'll need hot water" he explained, smiling sincerely and sympathetically at Elian. "I can't promise it won't hurt when I come back with the healing plants..." He'd been subject to them before. Not a pleasant experience. The relief from the pain that came afterwards was well worth the suffering during the treatment, though.   
  
Elian understood. Tinctures, especially freshly made ones tended to sting and feel as though the skin was alight with searing fire. Town healers would often say the pain was a reminder from the gods to not be as clumsy the next time. Elian had always supposed that if that were true, then it would be quite an insult to soldiers who got wounded not because they were clumsy but because they fought to protect what they loved.  
  
Elian nodded, wincing as he adjusted his position to be more comfortable. "Thank you." Elian whispered. Jack heard the words and turned to smile at the blond. The thanks brought kindling to the fires of infatuation burning in his heart and he couldn't help but blush when his back was turned to Elian. The blond was probably not going to stay with Jack when he was finally well, but Jack would relish all the time they go to spend together. He looked back one last time before he entered the forest to look for the plants he needed to take care of Elian's injuries. The sight that greeted him was a mystifying one.  
  
The blond held out his hand to the fire. His eyes were glazed over in what seemed to be rapt ecstasy and his entire body seemed to vibrate in eagerness. Jack suppressed a gasp as the tongues of flame leaped away from the burning wood and flowed towards Elian's palm. There, fire met ice in a beautiful dance of leaping flame and curling frost as the skin around Elian's hand and up his arm turned pinkish, though admittedly still pale. It was a significant departure from the alabaster pallor that he'd first possessed when Jack first saw him. Jack had been correct; this beautiful creature of winter also fed off of heat, warmth, though the reason for it was beyond his comprehension. Jack smiled and hefted the curved blade before plunging into the woods.  
  
Elian froze at the sound of rustling behind him. If he could have, he would have grown paler. His pallid skin, pale because of the ice within him, left very little place for that. His eyes grew wide and he jerked his hand away from the fire before turning to see Jack's back retreating into the forest. Had the brunet seen what he did? Had Jack seen Elian feed off of the fire? If he had, he definitely did not show it. Then again, Jack certainly had seen his ice. If the brunet had not reacted adversely to that, then there was little chance that he would take adversely to seeing Elian feed off the fire.  
  
Elian had to be careful. Whilst heat fed the ice inside of him, it also returned the humanity he'd lost at the womb whenever the ice had had its fill. The very ice within him that had time and again proven destructive, had torn from him everything he had once known and loved, was the one thing keeping him alive now. It slowed the creeping corruption of the poison in his veins, and kept the looming infection that threatened to overrun his life at bay. Without the ice, he would succumb much faster. Like a summer fire in a dry woods, the fever would burn through him with such speed that he would succumb in mere hours.   
  
Elian felt rough, wet flesh against the hand he was supporting himself on. He was visibly surprised and a small bolt of ice, not enough to do damage, shot from his hand to the dog's wet nose. He'd entirely forgotten about Jack's dog. The bundle of fur pawed at his snout before sneezing, knocking himself onto his haunches. He chuckled despite feeling the brunt of the fever returning, and ruffled the mop of white fur that was the dog's head. Glaise yipped enthusiastically at Elian and started to sniff his hand as though it was a flavoursome piece of meat. The licking also intensified. It was almost as though the dog couldn't quite get enough of the decidedly-icy flavour of Elian's skin.  
  
Glaise jumped on the blond's lap and started licking him all over the face. The blond couldn't help but laugh, though the dog's weight was a little bit more than he could handle. He lowered himself back to the ground and let Glaise sit on his chest. Elian closed his eyes, the feeling the fever burning up behind them. The food had helped stay it, but even the warmth of the fire and the substantial meal -- for him, at least -- could not get rid of the fever entirely. Elian knew it had gotten to the point where the fever was far too intense for his ice to fight even with the energy of the fire. It had happened before in Vamara when he'd cut himself on a fishing line and got infected a few days later.  
  
Glaise, who at that moment had made himself comfortable on Elian's chest whined at the blond and licked his jaw and neck slowly. He also pawed at the blond's face, though in a manner less playful than it was sympathetic, almost. The extra warmth from the dog was welcome, but Elian tried his best not to consciously draw heat from the adorable bundle of fur lying on his chest. Glaise was quite comfortable staying where he was, but he was, at least to the extent that any dog could be, concerned for Elian's well-being. Glaise licked Elian's neck and nuzzled into the crook of it, placing his snout and broad head right next to it. His front paws fell to either side of the blond's face. Elian felt strangely peaceful in the presence of the dog, it was almost as though he'd finally found his place in the world, but he knew better than to believe that.  
  
The dog was surely Jack's faithful companion by the looks of it and by how Glaise seemed to follow his every command despite being opposed to it. He offered the same solace to Elian that he offered to Jack, an energetic, fresh breath of air that was contrary to the dark grim world around them. The dog was, to an extent, also a friend to drive some of the loneliness that was undoubtedly felt by both of them away. Elian was himself surprised at how quickly he'd warmed up to the energetic bundle of fur, but then again, it was far easier to trust a baser animal than another person.  
  
As Glaise laid his head into the crook of Elian's neck, he yowled and howled and barked almost mournfully into the silence of the forest. Elian knew that the poison was quickly working its way through his system and would soon overcome even the ice that stayed its progress.  
  
It was but a few minutes later that Jack returned to the clearing, out of breath and carrying an armful of assorted plants, leaves, roots, berries and flowers. He'd heard Glaise's barking and had made much haste back towards the clearing. He was a little worse for wear, having paid too much attention to how Glaise was howling and too little to the path ahead of him. He'd not seen the branch that whipped right at him until the last moment when he ducked. He might have lost an eye had he not had the agility of a cat at that very moment.  
  
Hot blood was running down from the gash on Jack's forehead but he ignored it. He ran down to the water's edge and washed the wound out but let it be. It would heal. Elian was the object of all the hard work he'd done and it would not do well to have him die as Jack tended to his own wounds. "Glaise. Didn't I tell you not to bother Elian?"  
  
The dog whined and snuggled in even closer to Elian's neck. "It's okay." Elian said, slowly. He was still getting used to Jack's dialect. He wanted to be as clear as daylight for the young brunet, though he was having a considerably harder time than he had anticipated. "He kept me warm." Elian smiled, eyes still closed and head still tilted back. Glaise yipped softly and licked Elian's jaw. The blond placed a kiss on the dog's furry head against his better judgment. He was getting attached again, and only gods knew that this arrangement they had, Jack and himself, would not last very long. Trouble and, almost invariably, death seemed to follow him wherever he tread.  
  
"Still. He's quite a heavy dog" Jack said as he walked over and slowly lifted Glaise off of Elian. He set the dog who whined at him in protestation beside Elian. Jack placed his hand on Elian's forehead and hissed. The fever was back and stronger than it had been before. He had very little time. Jack sprinted to the horses and took the pail he'd brought to the water's edge and filled it before setting it down beside the fire. Jack sprinted again to the saddlebags, almost tripping on his own feet, to get the rest of what he needed.  
  
Jack took out a pair of cast-iron tongs, a mortar and pestle and a wooden bowl. As he was running back, arms laden with the things, the pestle slipped from the mortar and fell on his foot. Jack picked it up and limped back to Elian's side cursing under his breath all the while. The blond cracked an eye open and looked at Jack. "Are you... alright?" he asked.  
  
Jack nodded and grinned sheepishly. "I... dropped this on my foot." He waggled the pestle at the weary Elian as he put down his armful of implements. A smile tugged at the corners of Elian's lips. Jack was openly grinning... well, as much as he could considering he was also half-grimacing from the throbbing pain in his toe. As Jack was looking over what he'd brought he realized he'd forgotten his ladle in the saddlebags. He sprinted back and grabbed it and sat down beside Elian again. The blond had closed his eyes and was breathing hoarsely through his mouth. Glaise had not stopped whining since he'd been placed beside Elian. He licked the blond's face slowly, sadly. Jack had to work faster.  
  
The brunet took the ladle and spooned some water into the wooden bowl, being careful not to spill any of it on Elian. The last thing the blond needed was more water on his body. It was bad enough that he was covered in maggoty fur with soaked clothes underneath. The thought reminded Jack that he'd brought with him a spare change of clothes in case Elian wanted them. Jack's clothes were not the best, nor were they the most comfortable, but they did pretty well and would certainly help the blond recover.  
  
Jack looked at Elian again. The blond was pale. His alabaster skin looked almost as white as the very frost that shot from his hands, the very ice that he could beckon to his side at will. There was a flush that had crept to the other man's cheeks though, one that spread to his ears. Jack held his hand to Elian's forehead. Even hotter. He'd never seen the firebrand wreak so much havoc on any other creature as Elian. Even the deer who at times mistakenly ate them never ended up this incapacitated. Jack shook his head and grabbed the tongs.  
  
The brunet fished one the black stones he'd placed in the fire when he left from the glowing embers. He noted that he would have to add firewood to it soon. The stone that had been quite shiny and black was now a cherry-red colour. They had been a fortune to procure, according to his parents, but they had to do in a pinch. He submerged the stone in the water in the wooden bowl which almost instantaneously came to a boil. He left the stone in there, Nyko had claimed it possessed healing qualities all on its own. Neither Jack or Kyle had been convinced of the claim, but Jack wasn't about to let any help, regardless of whether or not it existed, pass.  
  
The brunet reached over the blond and fished a particular plant from the pile that he'd set down. The fisherman's delight had always puzzled him for not only was it never found growing anywhere near freshwater, its flowers brought ugly death. Eating the pale yellow flowers of the plant would paralyse the throat, letting no air in and no air out and the poor idiot who ate it would die slowly from lack of air. The leaves, though, had amazing medicinal properties. A tea boiled from the leaves of the fisherman's delight and wormroot not only chased the demons of the firebrand from the body with astonishing speed, but also helped wounds heal faster.  
  
Jack stripped the leaves from the pale green stems and grabbed the wormroot. He tossed the handful into the mortar and pestle and ground the two herbs together until their juices stained the pestle greenish-brown like the meadows of early spring. He poured the entire thing into the boiling water in the bowl and waited for the incredibly pungent aroma of the brew to waft up to him before he decided it was good enough to drink. The dredges of leaf and root floated to the surface after a short while. He skimmed them off with the ladle and tossed them into the fire. It was not the best way to dispose of the things, and arguably quite wasteful, since the dregs could be dried and used to make more of the medicinal tea later on. Had he not done so, though, the bitterness would have made the 'tea' nigh on unpalatable.  
  
Jack slipped his hand underneath Elian's shoulders. The blond was fast asleep, though whether it was restful slumber was definitely doubtful. If he'd not been so weak, Jack was willing to bet that the blond would have been tossing and turning and thrashing as he slumbered. As he brought Elian closer to him, he heard the blond's breathing. Elian's breaths were hoarse and laboured. He scooped a ladleful of the tea from the bowl and held it to Elian's mouth. Steam from the surface of the liquid wafted up to the sleeping blond's nose. The smell rudely woke Elian. He sputtered for breath, trying to avoid the pungent aroma. "Here. This will help." Jack said, trying to be as soothing as possible.  
  
Elian raised a trembling hand and pinched his nose shut. The concoction smelled absolutely vile, and he'd smelled his own puke earlier in the day. Whatever it was that Jack was asking him to drink made the vomit smell almost sweet as a rose. He tilted his head back as Jack lifted the ladle to his lips. The tea was not much better tasting than it smelled. It was bitter enough to contort Elian's face in an expression of distaste and after it all passed down his gullet, it seemed to leave behind an aftertaste he could only describe as raw eggs mixed with raw fish and meat.  
  
Had Jack not been there to hold that tiny white flower to his nose to make things instantly smell better, he would probably have vomited out the vile concoction. However, as the potion worked its way through Elian, he could feel its heat spreading through his body, feeding the Ice that lay dormant in every vein that pulsed through him, chasing away the poison that threatened to overtake him. His feet were another matter entirely as they still seemed to be a constant source of pain. Despite the inwardly soothing qualities of the foul potion, it had done little to help his feet. The blond could almost feel infection knocking at the gates to his body. The medicinal 'tea' lifted the haze that impaired his reason and was beginning to work the poison from his veins, but it offered no help to the bleeding wreck that was his feet.  
  
Jack laid Elian back down and took the stone out of the bowl and placed it back in fire. The blond's breathing was returning to normal much faster than he had anticipated, much faster than he supposed was possible for mortal men. Then again, Jack realized, surely Elian was more than just mortal man. Surely the blond was, by some virtue of the gods that had long since abandoned Jack, granted some ability to chase away ailment faster than mere men. Even so, Elian did not look quite as healthy as Jack wanted him to be. A paleness still hung about him, a palpable aura of sickness that could not be dispersed, and Jack was certain that the wounds in his feet were at the very least moderately infected.  
  
Jack picked up the other stones from the fire. They too were glowing cherry red. He dropped them into the pail as he walked back to the saddlebags and brought out fresh bandages. When he returned, the water in the pail was boiling. Perfect. He briefly soaked the bandages in the boiling water if only just to clean them. Before long, he took them out to soak them in the tea that he'd made. He reached over Elian and grabbed the rest of the plants he'd collected save for the broad leaves he'd found.  
  
The brunet threw the stems and roots and leaves into the mortar and pestle along with some of the boiling water from the pail and went to work grinding them into a paste. Jack knotted his eyebrows, trying to remember what his fathers had taught him about making these poultices. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as the thought alighted on his brow. If he was to ply the mixture on an area large as the soles of Elian's feet, he had to ensure that the paste would flow as one. After a few more minutes of grinding, Jack was satisfied with the consistency of the paste. He dipped a finger in the concoction and dabbed it on the gash on his forehead.  
  
Jack bit back a curse as his skin, though it did no such thing, felt as though it was crackling and hissing. "Elian" Jack said, still struggling slightly with speaking the name. He was still unwittingly saying the blond's name more akin to "Helian" than anything.   
  
The brunet placed his hand on the blond's shoulder and shook it gently. He reached over to the last few remaining plants he'd gathered. "This will hurt. Chew this. It will help." With deft, practiced fingers, Jack rolled up a few leaves of numbleaf. The way Jack handled the plant was almost methodical, adept. He'd had to give his father Kyle a lot of numbleaf the last few days before he died in order to soothe the pain in his joints.   
  
Elian watched, intrigued at the notable proficiency that the brown-haired lad displayed. Jack smiled and brought the bundle to Elian's lips. "Chew this well. Allow it to bleed its juice out." he said. Elian opened his mouth and with tentative fingers, the brunet slipped the tight roll of leaves into the his mouth. "Whatever you do, don't scream." The blond needed very little reminder. After all, it was not beyond reason that his pursuers were nearby. He was, after all, not privy to the fact that Jack had, the previous day, chased them away. There was no need to risk Jack's life as well as his own.  
  
Jack reached over Elian for the broad leaves. He wasn't quite sure what they were called, only that they did not seem like any of the plants that his fathers had warned him about. As far as he could tell, the leaves did absolutely nothing for man, neither healing nor harming. He lay them by his side. He reached over to the pail of still-boiling water and brought it nearby as well.   
  
Jack took one of the bandages and ripped a square of cloth from it and soaked it in the hot water. The brunet grabbed Elian's leg and gently held it in place on his lap as he dabbed on the wounds with the cloth. It came away with blood and pus, but the foot certainly looked more or less cleaner. He washed the cloth in the boiling water and dabbed it over Elian's foot again. He did this three more times before he was satisfied, and very little blood came away with the cloth. All the while, the blond was squirming in pain, chewing frantically on the bundle of leaves in his mouth, unable to release his foot from Jack's gentle but firm grip.  
  
"Shh... Shh..." cooed the brunet, trying his best to comfort Elian. The worst part of the treatment had yet to come. The blond's distress and palpable discomfort was going to pale compared to how he would react to the paste being applied to his feet, of that, the brunet was sure. He had little choice in the matter, though, as it was probably the only way to ensure a full recovery for Elian.  
  
The blond bit down hard on the leaves in his mouth and was surprised at the amount of juice that came gushing forth. The bundle of leaves had not seemed to be so tightly packed when Jack had put it in his mouth. Nevertheless, he felt a slight numbing sensation spread through his body as the juice traveled down his throat and into his stomach. If Jack's sympathetic wince of pain as he smeared the broad leaves with the paste was any indication, Elian knew he was in for something even worse.  
  
The brunet picked up the mortar and set it closer Elian's feet. He scooped up a generous amount of the paste. It was cool against his skin. His hand trembled. He wasn't exactly sure how the blond would react to the paste. He hoped nothing more would go wrong. Tentatively he spread the paste on the less-injured parts of Elian's feet. The blond stiffened almost instantly. The toes of his foot curled and he furrowed his brows in discomfort. Jack spread the paste down from the top of Elian's feet over the many cuts and open blisters there. A high-pitched keening came from the blond, echoed almost exactly by the whine that came from Glaise.   
  
With gentle circular motions of his thumb, Jack rubbed Elian's injured foot with the paste. He made sure to allow the concoction into every open lesion on the blond's sole in order to make sure that everything was being covered. He massaged the paste into every open bleeding crevice. Strangled sounds of pain issued from Elian's gritted teeth as the paste seemed to sear his flesh whenever it touched an open wound. Jack removed one of the bandages from the bowl and held the leaf smeared with the paste onto Elian's foot before wrapping it up tightly with the cloth.  
  
Elian's foot throbbed and he did not, by any means, look forward to Jack treating the next. When Jack stopped, and despite the throbbing pain in his bound foot, Elian breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. The brunet grabbed his other foot and his breath hitched in his throat. Jack repeated the entire process, much to Elian's displeasure, and a few minutes later, both his feet were similarly bound and covered in the supposedly-healing paste.   
  
Whether or not it would work, only time would tell. When Jack finally put down everything to tend to his own wound, the concoction had already had time to work its healing on the first foot that he'd treated. The paste was very soothing, and after the burning sensation had subsided, it felt cool and refreshing. Elian sighed in relief. It was the first true reprieve from pain he'd had in a long while. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, for once enjoying some measure of peace.  
  
Jack hissed and swore. The paste was getting into his eyes, and it was far too difficult to apply on his forehead. The sounds of exasperation drew Elian's attention and the blond cracked open his eyes to see Jack hunched over by the side of the pond, scrubbing his eyes out. "Jack." The brunet froze. A wet sloppy tongue ran up the side of Elian's face and he couldn't help but giggle. He brought his hands to his mouth, a soft gasp escaping his lips. The blond's blue eyes were wide. He'd not heard that in quite a long while.  
  
Elian propped himself up on his arms, still careful not to move his feet. He at least had the good sense to know that though they were feeling better, that it was probably a bad idea to move them haphazardly. Such was the illusion of the miraculous tincture that the strange brunet, whose fortuitous appearance had saved him from ugly death, had created somehow. He knew that the concoction was healing his wounds, but the way it masked the pain, herded it away as though a sheepdog would sheep, was truly marvelous. He could feel the pain as a faint persistent stabbing sensation underneath the skin of his feet, but it was something easily ignored. "Jack." Elian held his arms out and drew them back to his chest. "Come here."  
  
Jack glanced at the water, hesitating for a second. He wanted to get rid of the stuff in his eyes, but maybe Elian needed him for something. He picked up the cloth that he'd been using to try and scrub the paste from his eyes and to dress his wound properly and walked over to Elian, squinting with his left eye. He knelt by the blond. "What do you need?" Elian smiled. Again it was that small, almost fearful smile that just danced on the corners of his lips. The expression set Jack's heart aflutter. The blond shook his head and grabbed one of Jack's arms.  
  
For a moment, fear blazed in his chest. What was going to happen? Was this his reckoning for helping someone he barely knew? Was he about to die? The fear subsided quickly when he realized that Elian was simply supporting himself on Jack. Though it was gone, the fear had done its job quite well. His heart was hammering in his chest and he tried his utmost to return his breathing to its normal pace. He was sure Elian had noticed the sudden fear that had gripped him. Sure enough, the blond was looking at him with wide eyes -- scared ones, even. Had the situation not been so intimate and grave, Jack might have burst into laughter at how scared they were of each other though they had not shown any reason for such.  
  
Elian's grip on Jack's arm tightened and he dragged himself to a more comfortable position. The blond raised his right hand to Jack's face, tentatively caressing his cheek. Where Elian's fingers touched, tiny spirals of frost spun themselves into a beautiful latticework on Jack's skin, sparkling ever so slightly in the daylight. The brunet gasped in surprise not only at the cold, but also at the touch. Deep inside he knew it was innocent, but he'd never been touched in such an...  _intimate_  way before. Elian's hesitant fingertips danced on his skin and left fiery trails behind them wherever they touched. Though the frost was undoubtedly cold, Jack felt nothing but warmth rushing to his cheeks.  
  
The blond rose up, using Jack's arm to leverage himself and blew into the brunet's struggling eye. The cool wind stirred by Elian's breath carried away the remnants of the stinging paste in Jack's eye, crystallizing them into fine frost that sparkled as it rained down behind him. Jack was in awe. He brought his own hand to his eye in disbelief, marveling at what Elian had done in but one breath. Truly, the blond man before him was a creature not of the mortal realm with powers beyond his much-limited understanding. "How did you do that?" Jack whispered as Elian withdrew his hand from Jack's cheek.  
  
"My..." Elian paused, trying to find the words for what he was about to say. "My brother used to get all sorts of things in his eyes when we were young..." The memory hurt to recall. Elian's eyes grew distant and his grip on Jack's arm loosened. "I guess I just learned..." Elian's voice was soft as the hair on his head, vulnerable as the wounds on his feet. Jack felt a twinge of sympathy in his heart at the blond's words. The strange creature of winter seemed to have an almost-human past. Seemed to not be so enigmatic after all.  
  
"You had a brother?" Jack asked, slowly, shattering the silence that had settled between them in the last few moments. The blond nodded and averted his gaze. Jack did not miss the small ice crystals that fell to the ground just then. "Where is he now?" The brunet placed a hand on Elian's shoulder and rubbed it sympathetically. Glaise sidled up to the blond's leg and began to growl to comfort Elian. The dog's growl was a low rumble that Elian could feel vibrating up his thigh. He still couldn't bear to look Jack in the eye.  
  
Silence. It stretched for no more than a minute between the two of them. Elian did not seem to want to speak of his brother any longer. Jack broke the silence. "I'm... sorry." Elian raised his head and lowered it slowly in a gesture of assent. The blond remained deathly still and Jack worried for a moment that he was dead, but he noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of the blond's chest and back. He was still breathing. The brunet ran his fingers through his tawny hair, catching a small piece of twig and tossing it away. He sighed and sat by Elian and stared into the pond as was his custom whenever he visited the clearing.  
  
It wasn't long until he felt an insistent tugging on his arm. It wasn't Glaise. He turned to face Elian whose eyes were now clear and carried little if any hint of the emotional distress that he'd possessed mere moments ago. "Why are you doing this?" mouthed the blond. He was beginning to get accustomed to speaking in the dialect that Jack was more familiar with, but the perfectionist inside of him that had never gone away despite years of an inability to pursue perfection, refused to let him speak without first pondering each and every word that slipped from his mind to his tongue and through his lips. "Why do you help me?"  
  
Jack looked Elian in the eyes. There was a conviction there, an iron-clad determination that had not been there when they'd first met. However, Jack could not mistake what else was in those sapphires. There was a pleading to them that struck right to the core of the brunet's being.  _"I'm doing this because you're my one chance at falling in love"_  he said in his mind. Those were words he was far too afraid to give voice. What if Elian struck out the moment he heard them instead of lunge upon him and give embrace him and plant lips against his own? Jack would not risk it. "Because I saw you needed help."  
  
Elian considered the brunet for a moment, as though uncertain that he'd heard as he had. Many a time past, this had been the occasion when his so-called 'saviours' had stated their demands in exchange for the help he'd received. Jack made no such demands, made no such request for thanks, made no move to force himself upon the blond. Elian could scarce believe it. So much so was his surprise that his mouth hung open, unmoving for a moment, and that he had to convince himself that he was truly awake and not in some filthy haze of delirium left over from the poison of the berry that had not too long ago threatened his very existence. "You're doing this for more than that, I know it. You help me for more than just my sake."  
  
Jack shook his head. His heart sank in his chest and his mind rebelled, furious. He was disappointed -- offended, even -- that Elian thought that Jack was using the help he'd given to take something from the blond. "I'm not..." The brunet trailed off and watched the ground between his feet. "I live alone, nearby... It's not often that I see others, let alone talk to them." Then again, Jack could not blame Elian. He knew little of what the blond had been through, but if the wounds on his feet were any indication, the strange creature had been through much, and not all of it good. Perhaps he too would be so mistrusting if he had been pursued for so long that his feet had been likely irreparably damaged.  
  
A pang of guilt hit Elian at the brokenness in Jack's voice. If what the brunet said was true, then they were more alike than he'd imagined. Few people would be foolish enough to live alone in the world they were in. Few people who did had no choice in their condition. Men like Elian, outcasts who had found egress from those who would rather see them dead. Surely Jack was similar. None, he repeated to himself, none, would live alone where all manner of beast could tear them to shreds. None would live alone where the difference between living for one day and dying the next could be as small as a light drizzle the night before. "I'm... Sorry." The blond whispered softly.  
  
Elian took Jack's face in his hands again and turned it towards him. The brunet froze, locking eyes with Elian for a moment. Frost curled from his fingers and wrapped around the brunet's skin. The blond wiped the stray balm from Jack's brow with the heel of his palm and wiped it on the shirt that was draped over his shoulders. He tugged at the cloth that was in Jack's hand and the brunet let it slip from his grasp. Elian dabbed the cloth on the gash on Jack's forehead.  
  
Elian reached for the nearby mortar and scooped up some more of the paste and rubbed it on the cloth. The blond returned the cloth to the wound, spreading the cool balm on the broken skin. Jack hissed in discomfort but remained still. Elian placed the cloth back in Jack's hands and closed the brunet's fingers on themselves. "I'm sorry..." Elian trained his eyes on the damp earth he and the brunet both sitting upon.  
  
The blond felt a strong, firm hand on his chin and he let Jack tilt his head back up. Jack moved his head closer to Elian's for a heartbeat, then drew it back, a shadow of horror quickly flitting across his tawny eyes.  
  
Elian allowed a small smile to grace his lips. Jack smiled back. His upper lip trembled with hesitance, but he smiled. A spark of mutual understanding danced between their locked eyes.  
  
Maybe things were not so bad in the world they lived in after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Elian's injury is resolved... for now. It's pretty obvious that there's something else going on beneath the surface between Jack and Elian, but they're too stubborn and too distrustful that they just can't see it yet. In any case, this chapter also saw to putting a name to our primary antagonist so far. Seems like Tristan's just a random asshole.
> 
> ...I'm not about to make hating the character that easily.
> 
> In any case. Tune in next week for the next chapter! Don't forget to leave a comment or a kudos if you liked the chapter. It really helps motivate me to write the next one.
> 
> Here's a small taste of what's to come!
> 
>  
> 
> _"Monster" Jack whispered, voice barely audible above the gurgling of the stream._
> 
> _"I know." Elian responded, averting his gaze in shame. What was to become of him now?"_
> 
>  
> 
> Oh and if you'd like to shoot me questions, ask me over on my [tumblr!](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)


	5. I do too...

"Surely you jest?" The portly landlord grabbed the silver mark as it flipped in an arc through the air, ringing softly in the way that coins of the calibre often would as they sailed. He slammed a tankard of ale down before the other man. Tristan flinched at the force that the wooden drink vessel was brought down on the counter. He grimaced at sweet amber liquid and foam that spilled down the side, staining the already-stained counter-top.   
  
"You don't mean to 'unt 'im down, do you?" The other man, gruff and roughed up from all the time he'd spent in pursuit of the young blond shrugged. His other companions shuffled their feet uneasily and glanced at each other with uncertainty. They were more than a little afraid after what the bard Harold had told them. The fiery-haired one that had fainted at the mere mention of plague hurlers seemed almost sick with unease.  
  
"Oi Iven!" The owner of the tavern turned to the voice that hailed him. None other than his wife Jun. "We're out of potatoes!" The woman was probably, in her normal roundabout, entirely indirect manner of speaking, asking to go and buy some from the farmers living on the outskirts of the village. Iven waved his hand in both assent and indifferent dismissal and the woman ran up the stairs with a huff to get her basket.  
  
The bard had said that the winterchild was a fey creature, blest by vengeful gods with the power to bring down the cold wrath of winter upon the land. The winterchild was in himself a force of nature of an entirely different measure of being than mundane men like Iven and Tristan. What mortal man would stand against such godly beast? What mortal man could defy him? The portly tavern owner worried for the young, albeit gruff, man that sat before him. Years yet spanned ahead of Tristan, but should he dare take up arms against the winterchild, all those years would be but smoke in the wind.  
  
The thought reminded Iven of the bard. He allowed his gaze to wander up, drawn inexorably to the room that he'd given to the bard. He'd let the bard stay for free, much to his own consternation, since he'd been in a good mood the day the strange man had come into town. Almost as inexplicably as he'd come, the bard had gone. It was almost as if he'd never been there.   
  
The previous night, right after the four weary travelers that had pursued the winterchild arrived, the bard had disappeared into what seemed to be thin air. There was no sign of him, and not one person, it seemed, in the entire village that was currently overflowing with people, had seen the bard leave with his reindeer. All that he'd left was a pile of gold marks in his room, of mint that Iven had never seen before, with a note saying "I thank you for the food and drink and songs and sleep. Best of fortune to you all." The note had been signed "Not really Harold" and the landlord was almost certain it meant that the bard had lied about his name.  
  
When he saw the money, Iven had shrugged. He did not know whom the bard had swindled for all the gold, but he was not about to complain. Seeing as none of the patrons of the tavern had yet clamored for his money back or set the sun priests upon him, he was almost certain the gold was clean. Besides. He'd already put some of it to good use. One of the many golden coins had been spent for a cask of the northmen's best tobacco. It was money well spent, he mused as he contendedly puffed away on his pipe, having the best smoke he'd ever had his entire life.  
  
"And you believed everything the fucker said?" Tristan muttered as he took a swig of the potent ale. It was definitely of different vintage than the stuff that the landlord had given him the previous day. This drink seemed to be barely watered down. "He was a fucking bard! That's what they do. They embellish their tales! No one wants to hear of a simpering fool though he may have some domain over Winter!"  
  
Tristan made a very good point, one that Iven could not in good conscience dispute. T'was true, after all, that bards were but artisans of the spoken or sung word. It was also known that though art took after life, the stories that bards told were far from exactly true. "Very well. You 'ave a good point. But what 'ave you to gain from all this, if the bard was lying?"  
  
"I did not say the bard was lying, only telling half-truths."  
  
\---  
  
It had been a few minutes since Jack had left to gather more wood for the fire, and Elian was beginning to feel the familiar painful twinge of fear creeping in on his heart. He looked around, searching for any sign of the brunet in the thick woods around the clearing. Nothing.   
  
The blond sighed and turned his attention to the dog that was now lounging on his lap. Glaise was lying between Elian's legs with his stomach up in the air and his tail wagging enthusiastically. The furry appendage hit each of Elian's calves in turn. The short, stiffer fur of Glaise's tail tickled him slightly.  
  
The blond wasn't quite sure if he'd ever seen such a creature so adorable as Jack's dog. He splayed his fingers on the dog's belly and gave it a few rubs, much to the delight of Glaise who yipped at him and lolled his tongue in enjoyment. At the very least he wasn't quite alone. With the fire dying, Glaise proved to be a decent secondary source of heat to fuel his recovery.  
  
A hush fell over the clearing when Jack emerged out of the underbrush with his arms full of branches and twigs. Elian's eyes locked onto the brunet's figure, he was hunched over and seemed to be bent on keeping as quiet as he could. There was sweat beaded on Jack's brow and the wound on his forehead had opened again, sending a trickle of blood down the side of his face. The brunet seemed to be out of breath, and there was an almost frantic air about him. He tiptoed over to Elian and sat beside the blond, facing the fire.  
  
The brunet's back was to Elian, but he did not miss the subtleties in Jack's manner. The blond could see the tremble of the farmlad's hands and the uneven breaths that shook his body ever so slightly. Something was off. "I came across someone in the forest. He was not coming towards here, but I don't want to risk it." The fear in Jack's voice was palpable.   
  
Glaise's ears perked up and he leaped out from in between the blond's legs. He trotted over to Jack and nudged the brunet's side with his snout. A grim smile tentatively touched the brunet's lips as he reached underneath Glaise's chin and scratched it. "I don't think we can stay here for much longer..."  
  
Elian knew it to be true. If his pursuers were indeed still out there, then the smoke from the fire that Jack had built would be a glaring beacon for them. Now that Elian was pondering the situation with some clarity of mind, he was quite surprised that they had not been found yet. "But where would we go?" Elian still wasn't certain about Jack, and he didn't know why, but 'you and I' had quickly become 'we' for the two of them. A measure of trust had been extended, but Elian himself still feared that the brunet was just putting on a convincing visage of kindness and sincerity.   
  
Jack turned, having finished putting more wood into the fire and faced Elian. The blond picked up a piece of cloth that had been strewn nearby and used it to wipe off some of the blood from Jack's face. "I live nearby." The words made Elian's blood run cold. Why? He didn't know. Perhaps it was the feeling that if he tread into Jack's home, that he would be truly under the brunet's power. With his current state, Elian knew he could not fight the farmlad by any stretch of the imagination. The blond forced the bile that threatened to climb his throat back from whence it came.   
  
"The farm should be safe... No one knows really knows where I live. We can go there..." Jack looked up, his eyes locking with Elian's. He could see the fear shining in those purest, most beautiful, most azure eyes. Jack, truthfully, was himself feeling quite apprehensive about inviting the blond to his home. To begin with he did not know how Elian would react, or what the blond would think the brunet was proposing. Second, he wasn't sure that he wanted to share the place with anyone, particularly a creature such as Elian whom he'd just met and knew practically nothing about.   
  
Though the farmhouse had been his prison for so long, for all the years of his life he could remember, it had also been his home, where he could feel safe surrounded by familiar things. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted Elian there, but he felt as though they were now in the boat together and that he was obliged to see Elian to full recovery. "I... I mean, only if that's alright with you." he mumbled.  
  
Elian's fear stayed his tongue. He was not sure that his tongue would have had words to speak even if it had not. He was not entirely sure how to respond to Jack. There was nothing but sincerity in Jack's voice, no hint of the lechery or malice that usually blighted those same words in his experience. Elian's mind was conflicted. On the one hand he knew that if the farm was as safe as Jack promised, that his injuries could heal in relative security. On the other, all such words as those Jack had spoken had been but masks for more sinister intents in Elian's memory.   
  
Despite his hesitations, a small part of Elian desperately wanted to give Jack a chance to prove himself not the villain that his mind seemed to be bent on showing the brunet to be. Part of him was desperate to see even a shred of genuine goodness in the world, one that he did not snuff out because of his fear. He would be damned if he didn't think that Jack would be that one shred of goodness in the world.   
  
Slowly, Elian nodded his head in assent, still conflicted but willing to extend Jack another measure of trust. He was sure that the brunet was doing the same in inviting him, a total stranger with powers beyond mortal understanding, to his home.   
  
Despite himself, Jack could not help the smile of relief that broke out on his face. He could not deny that his heart fell when Elian became silent and distant for a short while. He had already outlined a list of reasons why Elian had to remain with him for his best interests. Some deeper, darker part of him had already begun to prepare for the inevitable yelling and accusation of being an abomination, even. Much to his relief, the sad departure he'd expected did not come to pass.  
  
The smile on Jack's face slipped almost as soon as it had appeared. They were, after all, not entirely out of danger just yet. All that Jack had was that one blade, and Elian was particularly indisposed to fighting in his current state. He glanced up at the sky, worry furrowing his eyebrow. The day was yet in its prime. If they started making for it soon, they would reach the farmhouse by nightfall even at the slow pace that he speculated they would have to take for Elian's sake. "We should leave soon." Jack straightened from the side of the fire and bent to pick up the mortar and pestle.   
  
"I will clean up. Make yourself comfortable. Rest, if you can. It might not be a long ride, but it will be a bumpy one" Jack said, a small smile gracing his lips as he locked eyes with Elian again. "Would you like to... ride on your own? O-or with me?" Jack's ears coloured and he felt blood rush to his cheeks. Far was it from him to complain of such trivialities at the time, but he felt like a fool, blushing at the prospect of riding with Elian.  
  
Much to the brunet's surprise, a blush coloured Elian's pale cheeks as well. In truth, it was a surprise to both of them. "It's been many years since I last rode a horse..." He'd not been on such an animals back ever since he'd run from the Vampiri capital, since he'd run from being the Vampiri Crown Prince. "I don't think I can..." It was embarrassment that brought colour to Elian's cheeks. The priests his homeland had oft said that a man who could not ride a horse was a deviant, weak of constitution and resolve.  
  
Jack craned his neck back to look at Elian, who was looking abashedly to the side, as he scrubbed the mortar and pestle clean in the pond-water. "I understand" he quipped with a genuine smile. "Glaise. Bring me the bowl" he said as he turned back to his work. The dog that was laying on its side by Elian's thigh got up and licked the blond's face before going to follow its master's bidding with a playful yip. The bundle of white fur was simply far too adorable for its own good. Elian felt an urge to squeeze the creature. He was appalled at the thought.  
  
The blond bit his tongue, uncertain about what Jack meant by what he said. After all, it had been ambiguous. Whether the brunet meant that he understood why Elian could not ride on his own, or that he understood that Elian was of weak heart, resolve and sexual discipline was unclear. He was staring at the ground by his feet, pondering the question when he couldn't bear the embarrassment of the admission any longer.   
  
Truth be told he'd thought he was above feeling any embarrassment for his situation anymore since it was, after all, born of necessity. It wasn't pleasant to know that at least some part of his noble-born sensibilities was still in him. "Don't you think I-I-I'm..." He began to blurt out but was unable to pursue the end of the question out of embarrassment.  
  
"You're what?" said Jack, wiping his brow with his forearm as he straightened from the waterside with the cleaned bowl and mortar and pestle. He walked over to the saddlebags and placed the still-dripping objects carefully inside. Glaise was right behind him, carrying the wooden bowl in his mouth.  
  
Elian's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment, uncertain if he should pursue an answer. Finally, he managed to get past the lump in his throat. He croaked out "Weak, lustful, depraved..." He averted his gaze when Jack stumbled in surprise at the question. He knew it. The brunet  _did_  think lowly of him now that he had revealed that he was probably unable to ride a horse. "I-I'm sorry..." he sputtered out, unable to look Jack in the eyes.  
  
"Hey." Elian was surprised by the firm hand on his arm and the sight of Jack getting down on his haunches by his side. "Why on earth would I think that?" The blond's gaze flitted towards Jack. Elian locked eyes with the brunet for a heartbeat. Concern, puzzlement, and, as always, sincerity was reflected in those eyes.   
  
Elian turned away again and said softly "Because I can't ride a horse on my own..."  
  
Jack made a disgruntled sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a question; Elian wasn't entirely sure. He faced Jack and was surprised to see the brunet running his fingers down through his hair with a look of utter befuddlement on his face. "I'm sorry, but what?" Elian shrugged. "How does that even make any sense?"  
  
"The priests always said anyone who can't ride a horse is weak, and lustful..." Elian muttered. Jack's face was scrunched up as he was trying to process what Elian had just said. Never had he heard a notion as ridiculous as what the blond had just said, and Jack, for one, had heard numerous ridiculous things from the wife of the master of the nearest farm who was arguably mentally inept.  
  
"That is a load of horse shit" said Jack, grinning cheekily at Elian after a few more moments of thinking on what had been said. The concept was simply ludicrous and despite the apparent gravity of their situation, Jack couldn't help the humour that worked its way through the darkness. "I've lived all my life on the farm. Never did I once see much less talk to a priest. My parents had stories of them..." Jack stopped, the grin on his face entirely erased. The pain of losing his second father became fresh on his mind again. "...They say a great many stupid things..." Jack trailed off, trying to keep tears at bay.  
  
The tremble in Jack's voice did not escape Elian's attention. It was audible, and the pain, palpable. It seemed as though the brunet's parents were as much a tender issue as his brother was, if not more. Elian knew better than to press the matter. There was no need to antagonize the brunet that had been nothing but kind to him since they met. "If only the rest of the world out there thought so too..." Elian whispered as Jack turned away trying to hide the tears brimming in his eyes.   
  
Though the blond spoke in such a low voice that the words were but whispers on a gentle wind, Jack heard them. It seemed that Elian had experienced cruelty inspired by the so-called messengers of the gods too. Though Jack himself had never been on the receiving end of that cruelty and hatred, he'd seen its result. He'd heard of what it did. He'd felt what it did, in the red welts that always, without fail, appeared on his arms whenever his father Nyko found him wandering off. He knew that cruelty by the fear that had hounded him and his parents all his life.   
  
\---  
  
"Very well, 'alf-truths, then." One of the traveling merchants left his spot at the bar to saunter over to a table with a hostile look on his face. One of the men with Tristan, the redhead, shot a hasty glance at the man before taking the seat and drinking some of the ale that was left there. Iven glared at him disapprovingly but decided that it was against his best interests to antagonize the Tristan's group. He cocked his head towards the merchant and two burly men whom he'd hired as bouncers earlier in the day were more than glad to get up from their chairs. They abandoned the tankards of ale they had been nursing to crack their knuckles and loom threateningly over the merchant.   
  
The poor man was a few feet away from the table that was evidently mocking some other schmuck on the other side of the tavern when all of a sudden, the shadow of the two bouncers loomed over him like a dark cloud. Though drunk and swaying from side to side, the merchant could not help but be startled by the sudden absence of light. He turned around and visibly paled, scurrying off and out of the tavern right after throwing the two a silver mark for his drink. Iven shook his head. "What do you think you'll gain from this... farce?"  
  
"Everything." Tristan mumbled into the ale, shooting the man beside him a glance. The look was shared. A spark of something, Tristan was not entirely sure what, jumped between them. Perhaps it was understanding, he could not properly tell. Iven shook his head. That was not an answer the tavern keeper was satisfied with. "Fine. Revenge."  
  
"Why are you so bent on this... revenge of yours?" Iven took a deep long draft from his pipe before puffing it all out from his mouth and nose. He grabbed Tristan's and his companion's tankards and filled them back up with ale. With all he'd bought from the merchants using the coin the bard had left, he could probably afford giving away a drink or two a day for a week for free without damaging his profits. He wouldn't do that. Tristan and his men though deserved at least a few drinks on him for the interesting conversation and their intriguing story. "After all, if 'e can control Winter itself, you 'ave got everything to lose!"  
  
"He killed my wife." Tristan slammed his fist on the table in anger. The man was stronger than he looked. His hand had left a sizable dent on the wooden counter. No matter. Iven had enough gold to pay for ten counters. Though he was mired deep in conversation with the strange men from outside the village, he still could not quite wrap his head around how fortunate he'd been to come across such a large sum of money, and from a seemingly-lowly bard too.  
  
"I'm not convinced." Iven said, flatly, taking his pipe in one hand and lowering his gaze to stare Tristan right in the eyes. Though he was visibly stronger, younger, and by far more fit than the portly master of the tavern, Tristan wilted in the intense look and averted his eyes.  
  
"What do you mean?" He muttered angrily, feigning offence.  
  
"You're not as angry as you should be if you truly cared for 'er" remarked Iven, straightening from the position he'd taken and puffing on his pipe once again.  
  
"I did care for her." Iven raised an eyebrow at the gruff man. He really did not believe the entire vengeance for a murdered wife story. The redhead sitting beside Tristan looked from the landlord to Iven and back many times in the span of the pause that hung between them. Tristan broke first. "Fine. She was a bitch." Tristan looked away and sighed.  
  
"But my daughter loved her so." Tristan closed his eyes and breathed out a long shuddering breath. His voice trembled. "She is the sweetest little girl." He looked into the ale and for but a moment, he saw her face in the dim reflection of the amber liquid within the tankard. "She had the brightest smile of any little girl I'd ever seen. But sometimes, she's far too good and loving for her own sake." He slammed his elbows on the counter and buried his face in his hands. "I just know that if she finds out about what happened to her mother, she'll never forgive herself."  
  
Tristan's daughter was still innocent to the hardships of life, to the hardships of the world they lived in. He wanted to keep her that way for as long as he possibly could. He wanted to protect her from the men who would invariably try to take advantage of her, that would sully her clean mind. He'd done all he could, but the gods saw it fit to be cruel, and sent the winterchild his way.   
  
"I have to kill the winterchild, because if my daughter loses that bright smile of hers, I will be damned if I let live the fucker who took it away." Tristan gritted his teeth and blinked away the tears that were in his eyes. The other men glanced at each other and shuffled uncomfortably where they stood. "I'm doing this...  _for her_." The way Tristan said the last two words made them almost inaudible. The 'leader' of the ragtag group of men raised the tankard to his lips and took a great big swig.  
  
Iven shook his head. These young men and the folly of their zeal. He'd once been asked if he would do anything to be young again. He'd answered perhaps, if only to have a body that would not tire every twenty or so paces. Truth was, he would not want to be young again, if it only meant that he would be subject to the fickle flame of youth, to that eye that would be so affixed on one thing to the exclusion and detriment of everything else.   
  
"Why'd you leave 'er then? All alone? What would she think? Where did 'er father go?" Tristan sputtered and coughed, some ale trickling from his nose. "'ow would she feel, that both 'er mother and father left 'er?" He'd been so absorbed with protecting his daughter's innocence and taking revenge on the winterchild for disrupting his family that was just beginning to become happy again, that he'd completely forgotten about her. "What do you 'ave to lose with this 'arebrained scheme of yours?"  
  
Tristan fell silent. He had everything to lose, he'd come to realize. He should never have left home, just told his daughter some precious lie, and let her heal from losing her mother. But he was here now, more than a week's travel from home, with little idea where it even was. He feared never seeing his little girl again. "I--"  
  
The man sitting beside Tristan averted his gaze and trained his eyes on the ale sloshing around in the wooden vessel in front of him. In a soft voice, painfully clear in the two seconds of miraculous hush that fell over the tavern, the redhead said "All of... Not one of us has anything more to lose." The two other men that had been with Tristan nodded in solemn assent.  
  
Iven regarded the redhead grimly. "I think as long as your 'eart is beating, and your lungs are breathing, there's always something to lose."  
  
\---  
  
The moment of silence between the two of them stretched for the longest time. Glaise was miraculously silent as well, making no noise but for the swishing of his tail and his occasional rumbles. The dog was but faithfully and attentively watching the two young men as they pondered what each other had said for a while. It took Jack realizing that the day was waning for him to leap back into action, gathering up everything he'd brought and placing them back into the saddlebags and the pack he had where they belonged. "We have to go now." Elian nodded and was about to try and push himself up when he suddenly found Jack towering over him with a firm hand on his chest keeping him on the ground. "You'll hurt your feet!"  
  
Elian returned to reclining and watching Jack bustle about the clearing, propping up his upper body by his elbows. There was no use protesting against the brunet. He was evidently far more fit and stronger than the blond, and he seemed to know what he was doing. After all, he'd been able to create that poultice that had allowed Elian some much needed relief. He trained his eyes on the farmlad as he walked about the clearing, getting everything in order for their departure.  
  
When everything else was put away, Jack took the pail and upended it on the fire, throwing up smoke and steam in the process. Elian took one last look around the clearing. It was beautiful as it had been when he'd first gotten there, and though it was no more changed in the light of morn, it was not nearly as enchanting as it had been under the light of the goddess that was the moon. Elian would return to the place before he moved on, he vowed to himself. "Jack" Elian called out softly as the brunet began to carefully wrap his feet up in the furs that he'd been covered with not too long ago.  
  
"Yes?" Jack asked, tawny eyes meeting Elian's blue ones as he slipped his arm underneath the blond's knees and upper back. With a grunt and a bit of jostling about, Jack was able to lift Elian from the ground. Elian had never quite been as manhandled as Jack had just done, and he would have been lying if the feeling had not caused him the a little arousal. The blond wrapped his arms around Jack's shoulders and neck and hung on for dear life. Jack seemed strong, but Elian was not about to get dropped.  
  
"When I'm better, can you take me back here?" Elian surprised himself with the question. He'd never known such innocence, such idealism still existed in his heart. He'd long thought it was all snuffed out by a terrifying, uncaring, unflinching world that was out to kill him. He was wrong. Pleasantly so, maybe. Perhaps Jack's refreshing kindness had allowed those long-lost vestiges of Elian's humanity to flower once more. "I want to see this place before I go..."  
  
Jack almost dropped Elian and had to stop just shy of the horses. His heart sank in his chest. What was Elian saying? "Where are you going?" Against his better judgment, he didn't want the blond to leave. Sure, he was apprehensive about letting Elian live at his home, but that was only because it was such an intimate, sacred place for him. He didn't want to be left alone again, scared and never having anyone to share and perhaps fight that fear with.  
  
"I can't stay with you, Jack..." The words felt like a dagger thrust into his chest and twisted time and time again until he knew nothing more than the dagger and the pain it caused. The brunet sat Elian on the horse, both his legs hanging off one side. Jack soon followed, leaping onto the saddle. He couldn't bear to look at Elian, couldn't bear to show the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "They  _will_  find me again, and when they do, I do not want them to hurt you."  
  
Jack didn't know why, or why he felt that way about Elian in particular, but the thought of being separated from the blond was now almost unbearable. Perhaps it was the simple fear of being left alone again that worked against Jack, but he could somehow tell that it was more than that. In what little time they'd had together, he knew that part of his heart had latched on to the idea of him spending the rest of his life with Elian. He wasn't ignorant of the fact that there was more than one man hunting down the blond, that there was great risk for injury or death, but he found that he did not fear any of that. What he feared was losing Elian only to never find anyone ever again.   
  
"They can't hurt me" he said, trying to find some strength, any strength, to bolster his conviction. "I did not help you, take care of you, just so they can hurt you all over again..." Jack whispered to Elian as he bent down to untie the horses from the tree. He gave Elian the lead for the pack horse and took the reins in his hands. Their bodies were touching. Their closeness, almost intimate. Jack felt raw, vulnerable, exposed. He didn't like it, but he didn't like the idea of losing Elian more.  
  
Elian's words caught in his throat. For some reason, the idea of leaving this one man who'd shown him a kindness that he'd never received before, not from the castle servants, not from his parents, not from his brother, not from lady Elesyne, not from the men and women that had given him board and food for nights that he needed them, and not from the 'friends' he'd made on his travels, felt like a burning, itching, painful weight on his shoulders. The blond struggled against his warring heart, trying to justify leaving Jack to himself. He found his voice. "What sort of thanks would it be, for all you've done for me, that I let you be hurt by the things I've done?"  
  
The two passed through the clearing and emerged by the bank of the stream. There was a short silence, broken only by the soft gurgling of the water as it flowed by at its placid pace. Jack took the reins with one hand, and rubbed his eyes with the other, wiping away the salty wetness that had gathered there. "What sort of thanks would it be, for all I've done for you, that I heal you only to let you go and kill yourself?" There was a hint of anger in Jack's voice, but it trembled with equal parts desperation and pleading. "What wrongs have you done that these men would not stop until they find you and do you harm?"  
  
Elian fell silent and his gaze drifted off into the distance. He'd done a great many wrongs. "I killed."  
  
Jack was startled. He'd not thought  _that_  part of the story that the men had told was real. Maybe Elian did indeed prefer the company of men to women as he did, after all. Despite the possible good news, he felt his heart thump in his chest. He was with a murderer. Though Elian had seemed innocent and terrified, he'd committed murder. The blond had admitted to as much! Nothing further was spoken and silence stretched. The two words that Elian had said hung in the air between the two until Jack broke the unsettling quiet with one. "Why?"  
  
Elian considered for a moment how to answer the question. Utter terror burned through his veins. Adrenalin pumped through his body, his heart hammered in his chest. He wondered what Jack would do now that Elian had confessed to him that he was a murderer. He wondered if the kindly brunet would suddenly turn cold and distant and leave him behind to the mercy of the world. He wondered what would happen now that Jack knew that Elian's hands were stained with blood. Human blood. "Fear" was Elian's only grim reply.  
  
For a moment, there was nothing but the rush of the stream's waters and the titter of birds in the woods. Slowly, Elian felt Jack's arms tighten around him. Here it was, he told himself. He was going to get thrown off and probably left to die. Much to his surprise, no such thing happened. There was a lot on Jack's mind, but the way Elian spoke that one word struck him like a hammer would an anvil. The brunet felt sick to his stomach. Elian felt the splash of warm droplets of water on his shoulder. Was Jack crying? What evil had he wrought this time? Elian chided himself.  
  
"Why?" Jack repeated the question, numb. His mind would not let him say anything else. His heart was, for the moment, silenced. He was holding, in his arms, a man who had admitted to taking another's life in the sight of gods and men, yet he could not bring himself to do any harm to Elian, could not bring himself to believe that he'd done it in cold blood.  
  
"She was going to kill me..." Elian responded, gaze distant, watching as the trees bobbed past, weaving in and out behind each other. Memories of the murder appeared in his mind's eye. He shuddered as he relived, vividly, each and every moment of it and other days like it before.  
  
"What did you do?" Jack asked, his voice no louder than a whisper meant for only Elian's ears. There was very much a scared little boy in Jack's voice. Deep inside, the brunet was a scared little boy who had to grow up quickly lest the world around him devour him and spit him out a mangled, broken mess. In truth, Jack was ever as scared as he had been the day his adoptive parents found him. As he had been since he could remember.  
  
Elian pondered the question. "I did nothing to provoke her. She came after me with a sickle. In fear I lashed out and my frost killed her." Elian shuddered, remembering. Arcs of frozen lightning had leapt from his hands against his will but not against the all-consuming fear that he'd felt at the moment. They had crackled as they went, turning the very air into coldest wind. His ice had reached out, fanned out, jumped from her and onto the beasts with her.  
  
Worst of all, Elian knew that there was some part of him that had reveled in the act. As the ice began to envelop their bodies, it formed a bond with Elian. The very warmth that gave them life, that sent their blood surging through their veins, that pulsed their hearts, that took their breath and pushed it out when it was spent, had been siphoned into him. It had been glorious. It had made him feel powerful. It had disgusted him.  
  
"Monster" Jack whispered, voice barely audible above the gurgling of the stream.  
  
"I know." Elian responded, averting his gaze in shame. What was to become of him now? He feared what Jack would do to him now that he knew what sort of monster the blond was. For some strange reason, the worst part of it all was how terribly it hurt to hear the accusation coming from the one person that had shown him even a modicum of kindness with nothing expected in exchange, at least nothing to his knowledge. He felt as though a spear had been thrust through his breast. He felt as though there was truly no hope for him. Despite all he'd been through, nothing had quite prepared him for what Jack had said.  
  
"Not you."   
  
*  
  
Neither of them had spoken since Jack's final two words. In truth, the reality of what he'd just said hung in between them and over them like dark, brooding clouds. Elian had been taken aback by what Jack said. Of all the things he'd thought people would say, he'd never expected those two words.   
  
All of Elian's life since he'd run from Vamara, he'd thought of himself as a monster, one whose path only brought a wake of death and destruction with it. Yet here was one man, perhaps the only one in the entire world that would think it, who, despite his admission of guilt to murder, the most heinous of crimes, believed that it was not Elian who was the monster but rather the people who were out to hurt him.  
  
Jack was, himself, stunned to silence by what had slipped his lips. To begin with, what would Elian think of him, that he did not consider a murderer as much a monster as the victim of his crime? Certainly, Elian would not think highly of him after that. Second, he'd surprised himself by how freely he'd given voice to those two words. That he cared enough for Elian to be of the opinion that it was the horrid woman who'd driven Elian to kill who was a monster was an admission he'd not been ready to make to himself, much less the blond in question.  
  
It was as they broke through the woods and into the rolling hills behind Jack's parents' -- and now his alone -- property that Elian finally broke the silence. "Murder doesn't make me a monster?" The words came slowly, haltingly, but not because Elian was tired and had a sore ass from riding the horse, but because he could barely find the words to speak. No answer was forthcoming from Jack. The brunet was deep in thought. Why  _didn't_  he think that Elian was a monster?  
  
Fear. Necessity. That was the reason. Perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was because Jack himself knew that fear of being found out, of being chased away, being threatened and maybe even harmed. Perhaps it was because Jack saw more of himself in Elian, terrified of society and alone in the world than he did in the spiteful woman who'd chased Elian off for simply being different. "Is a stag that gores a wolf in his own defense a monster?" Jack had seen the bloody results of such battle before. More often than not, it was the wolf that reigned superior, living another day to lick its wounds. But on occasion, it was the stag that won, leaving behind the carcass of a predator, to feed the very grass that the stag would later come to eat.  
  
Elian considered the question and looked up at Jack. The brunet's eyes were focused elsewhere, on farmhouse ahead. "No more than a wolf that eats a stag for his survival, I suppose..." He realized Jack's point, and it was a strong one. His murder had been brought about by necessity, by self-defense. In truth, all the lives he'd taken were out of fear and want to survive. "But how does that make her a monster?"  
  
"Because she didWn't  _need_  to hate you for being  _different_ " Jack lowered his gaze and met Elian's own. There was something meaningful in the brunet's tawny eyes, but Elian, unversed in the ways of the kind heart, could not discern its nature. He nodded in understanding. The brunet seemed wiser than he looked, but Elian was still convinced that he was a monster.  
  
"But I didn't say she hated me for being different..." Elian protested, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Jack's arm. He tried to stifle a yawn. He was tired, and with the light of day waning, it was a surprising change of pace. He'd been a creature of the night since he'd run away from his old home, preferring the shadows of night when he could slip away unseen to the glaring brightness of day when he stood out like a peacock in a coop of hens.  
  
"Why else would she attack you if you did nothing?" Elian had no response for the question. Jack nodded grimly. He was most probably right. Even Elian, having only just begun to think about his actions that fateful day, shared Jack's thought. Why else but because of being different? It almost seemed as though being different was itself an execution sentence in the world they lived in. He shuddered, remembering what trouble and pain being 'different' brought.  
  
By the time the two reached the farmhouse, the sun was just barely embracing the tops of the trees. The last of its brazen light was beginning to dwindle into the dark of night. They'd made it just in time, slow as they had been on the way. Jack dismounted and tied the horses to a nearby pole before taking Elian in his arms nd carrying him past the threshold into his home like his fathers said a man would his bride.   
  
The brunet stopped before the door for a moment, and lifted his eyes to gaze upon the countenance of the home he'd been raised in. The place was almost hallowed ground to him, and his fathers had been nothing but good to him. What would they think of Jack bringing home a murderer, guilt-ridden though as he seemed with his crimes? No matter, they were dead and gone, and though Jack wanted to do their memories honour, there was no honour in refusing help to those who needed it.  
  
Jack worried about the portrait that they would soon come upon. Alas, there was no time to think. The thoughts in his mind raged as though the sea in a tempest. As the brunet pushed the door open, he felt apprehension and nausea bubble in the pit of his stomach. Though he'd made it clear that he was not going to hate Elian for what he'd done, he was not sure how the blond would react to seeing the painting.   
  
Much of the living room was shrouded in shadow, but a single bar of golden light streamed from the one opened shutter onto the portrait above the hearth.  
  
The light, bright though as it was, fell softly upon the brows of his fathers' likenesses. The two men were locked in an intimate embrace, the taller, Nyko stood almost half a head over his partner, Kyle. Their lips were locked in tender passion, their eyes closed, needing nothing but the feeling of their lips upon each other to feel their love, to know that they were not alone. Kyle's arms were wrapped around Nyko's shoulders and neck, a sincere embrace. Nyko's left hand gripped one of Kyle's arms, a firm assurance that they were truly as one. His right was wrapped around Kyle's nape, turning the other man's light brown hair into a messy disarray.   
  
The two men were sweaty, bare from the waist up, and streaked with dirt and grime, but they held on to each other as though little else mattered, as though they would die without the other's presence. Kyle was clean in only one place, sharp and crisp in the painting. A single thin trail of clean skin went from the corner of his eye to his chin, and there, frozen in midair, was a tear as it fell between them.  
  
A gasp issued from Elian's lips. The painting was beautiful, and the men, one with hair of fire, and the other with hair much like Jack's, were stunning despite the mess that covered them. Elian could not take his eyes off of the portrait. Jack could not take his eyes off of Elian. His breath was bated in expectation for the inevitable string of curses and possibly instant death that would come from the blond. Much as he waited, death never came. There was silence punctuated only by soft scuffling as Glaise made his way into the farmhouse.   
  
"You have two fathers..." whispered Elian.  
  
"I  _had_  two fathers..." answered Jack, not once taking his eyes off of the blond in his arms. The brunet was himself trembling in apprehension of what else Elian would say. The fear in his heart was so great that he did not notice the absolute lack of hostility in Elian's voice.  
  
"I'm sorry..." Elian turned to face Jack, his eyes locking with the brunet's. To Jack they seemed almost devoid of meaning. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest with such strength that had his bones not been in the way, it would have burst from his body. Though Jack was blind to it, the blond's sapphire blue eyes were filled with pure sympathy.  
  
"He died just yesterday..." Jack cocked his head to the right, to the brunet much like himself. Elian's eyes widened and his breath became shallow. He looked away, casting the light of his gaze upon the portrait once again. Tears threatened to spill. He wasn't sure where the sadness came from, or why the tears threatened to come forth, but he could only imagine how much strength it had taken for Jack to come to the aid of a stranger, one who had seemed to be far more strange than any mortal man could be, merely hours after the death of his last parent.  
  
Elian was silent, but Jack could feel the trembling of the blonde. "Gods..."   
  
"Do you hate me?" Jack's arms were beginning to burn, but he could not will his feet to move from where they were rooted. He stared at the portrait just as Elian was doing. Would this be where everything fell apart?  
  
"Jack?" The blond felt a tad slighted by the question. He was not confused by it, not by far. He lived in the same world that Jack did, after all, and people like them were always, almost without exception, outcasts deemed inferior and utterly despised.   
  
"Do you hate me?" Jack repeated the question, louder. He felt a weakness in his knees but he forced himself to remain standing. He could not afford to drop Elian, not without hurting the blond even more. Why he raised his voice, he did not know. Perhaps some part of him was hoping that maybe the authoritative tone would force Elian to tell the truth.  
  
"Why would I?" Elian asked, voice alighting but softly and gently on Jack's ears. He felt Jack stiffen where he stood. Had he said something wrong? Was it not answer enough that he did not instantly say yes?  
  
Jack paused, uncertain if he should continue what he was about to say. Sure, Elian had not said a thing about his fathers being abominations yet, but they were dead. Perhaps the blond would think differently about someone such as him, alive, breathing, and ever so close. "Because I have two fathers?"  
  
"No..." Elian looked deeply into Jack's eyes. He could see the fear their. He could only imagine the depth of terror that had been present in his own when he'd admitted to the murder of one of his pursuers' wives.   
  
"Because I, like them, prefer the company of men?" The words left Jack's lips slowly and each one sounded as though a strike of a hammer nailing down the lid of a coffin. Jack looked away, unable to meet Elian's gaze in shame. There. He'd said it. He'd admitted his one deepest, darkest secret. Now, Elian was free to hate him.  
  
"No..." Jack's eyes widened in surprise and a small broken sound escaped his lips. The blond wrapped his one arm around Jack's shoulders, supporting himself as best as he could on his one arm. He used his other hand to gently turn Jack's face back towards him. Sapphire eyes met watery tawny eyes. "No." Elian said again, firmly. He rubbed his thumb in circles around Jack's cheek, bringing into existence and rubbing out fragile curls of frost.  
  
"Why?" Jack said, his voice breaking in the middle of the question. He felt small. He felt vulnerable. He felt exposed. It was a sensation he did not feel used to. It was a sensation he did not like. "Why?" He asked, pleading, voice heavy with desperation.  _Don't let this be a dream. Please._  Jack could give no voice to those words. His throat would not let any other word through than 'why.' Why did Elian not hate him for what he was? His fathers had always told him that if he ever told anyone, they would hate him back.  
  
It was Elian's turn to pause. Here was Jack, probably baring before him his deepest, darkest, most guarded secret. It was Elian's as well. His ice was not his biggest concern, it never had been. His ice was difficult to hide, if not nigh on impossible. The secret that dwelled in the depths of his heart, in the darkest crannies of his soul, was that he, like Jack, preferred the company of men to their more buxom counterparts.  
  
 _"I do too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here we are. Here we stand. *breaks into song* LET IT G-- *cough* AHEM.
> 
> Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Pretty awesome stuff so far. Setting the stage for a lot of things that will happen in the next. Oh boy. The story's about to take a dive into the depths of angsty.
> 
> Comment or kudos if you like the story so far! I'd love to hear from you what you think of Tristan now that some more of the motivation behind his antagonism is shown. I'm just going to go ahead and say you might even feel downright sorry for the man in the future.
> 
> If you have any questions, hit me up! I have a [tumblr blog!](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)
> 
> In any case, here's a short preview of what's to come: 
> 
> _  
> Tristan snorted and cracked open his eyes, staring blearily up at Rein. "Why her?" asked the redhead, staring down at the drunken man before him._
> 
> _"I was young..." Rein shook his head. "And she was... right... about one thing... I thought with my cock..." The man who was standing over Tristan averted his gaze in revulsion. He walked over to the nightstand and began to gulp down the other tankard of ale that was left there as Tristan continued speaking. "She was a... bitch, sure... but I wanted to... fuck. She had a... pretty enough face, and gods her tits were supple..."_


	6. Frozen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This week's update has an explicit non-con scene, so trigger warning for you all. See you at the end-of-chapter notes!

_"I do too"_  
  
The response was the last thing that Jack had expected. Sure, the men had been right about the murder, but he'd not expected them to be right about Elian's preference in bed-mates. He was so shocked that his mouth worked wordlessly for a few moments. Even so, afterwards, he could not think well enough to form any coherent words. "Jack?" Elian's voice was small, and scared. He didn't quite know what was going through Jack's mind, concern rearing its ugly head in his heart... The brunet almost seemed to be in a trance.  
  
"Jack?" The brunet took one step forward, eyes fixed at a point in the distance. The very visage of his face, stony and devoid of emotion, terrified Elian. Another step. The blond removed his hand from Jack's face and hung on for dear life. Taking one step after another, Jack made his way to the stairs and eventually, up them. Each footstep was mechanical and measured. Elian could tell that they were aimless, that the only reason Jack was heading where he was, was because he'd done it so many times before.   
  
"Jack are you alright?" Elian asked, worried. He buried his face in Jack's chest, terrified that he might get dropped. No such thing happened. Jack's arms held strong. Elian was not much of a heavy load, not after Jack had carried his own father down to give him a proper burial. Even if Elian was in the prime of his health, he probably would not have been a problem, much less now that he was frightfully thin. When they reached the second floor landing of the farmhouse, Elian allowed himself to leave the comfort of Jack's chest and look around.  
  
The farmhouse looked surprisingly well-built if not a little rough. From the way that none of the floorboards creaked under Jack's feet, to the way that the timber that made up the walls was laid in such a way that there were no gaps in between, it seemed to almost be the work of a master builder. The blond decided that he would ask Jack about it if he ever had the chance to talk to the brunet again. For the meantime, though, it seemed that no words were forthcoming.  
  
They made their way to the second of the two rooms in the house. The blond cast his eyes about, and he could see little things here and there, mementos of the people that had lived there once. There was a pipe on a nearby desk, an uncovered but empty chamber pot on the foot of the bed, and an assortment of smooth, glittery stones all in a straight line on top of the chest of drawers. From the size of the bed, Elian supposed that it was not Jack's room. The large, evidently lopsided mattress had room enough for two, and perhaps a third if one was willing to squeeze in a little closer.  
  
As they drew nearer to the bed, Elian raised his eyebrows in surprise. He'd not noticed it from afar but there was a featherbed. It was admittedly not properly fluffed up and smoothed, but the only reason Elian knew the 'proper' way was having lived in a noble court. Jack knelt on the bed and began to gently lower the blond to the bed. Elian doubted it would feel like his bed back in the palace of Vamara, but it was the best Jack had. Elian didn't know why, but the mere thought of Jack giving him the best bed in the house set his poor heart aflutter, much to the displeasure of his mind that took the time to remind him that he  _could. not. stay._  
  
The bed was surprisingly more comfortable than Elian had expected. Perhaps it was that he was mistaken, or the fact that sleeping on the ground, piles of rags, bales of hay, and straw mattresses for the last three or four years had lowered his standards of comfort quite a bit. He felt his entire body sink into the bed, revelling in the softness and the warmth that it lent him momentarily. His heart though, still reached out to Jack and he couldn't help but continue staring at the brunet, eyes filled with confusion and concern. "Jack?"  
  
It was almost as though his words were falling on deaf ears. Jack turned away from Elian and walked out the door, mechanical and stiff as he had been since Elian had made mention that he shared the same proclivities as Jack. Had he done something wrong? His mind had warned him about getting attached, but his heart had not listened, and Jack's silence, for some odd reason,  _hurt_. He'd just told the brunet his deepest, darkest secret, hoping that Jack would reciprocate the same measure of trust and kindness that he had when Jack had revealed the same to him. He'd not received it. He felt betrayed, but at the same time, he could not levy the blame on Jack.  
  
The brunet stumbled down the stairs, leaving Elian to his thoughts and getting himself some time on his own. He braced himself on the banister. Had the gods seen it fit to torment him with this happy dream only to take it away come morn? Was he but a wanderer in the land where dreams roamed and nightmares stalked? He silently demanded the truth from the gods, but received no answer. As he descended the steps, the light of the weakening eye of day seemed to follow him, night nipping at his heels.  
  
Jack ran to the kitchen and with a burning splint, lit the lamps and candles in the entire first floor of the house. The mindless activity helped to calm his racing heart and his turning mind, but it lent little, if any answer at all, to the question that plagued him. Was he dreaming? He heard the horses nickering nervously outside as darkness descended upon the land. The poor creatures were not used to being outside of their stable come twilight. He shook his head and grabbed a lamp before running out of the farmhouse to return the faithful steeds to their resting place.  
  
Up in the room, Elian listened to the racket that Jack was making downstairs with growing dread. Had he said something so infuriating to Jack? Why? There was no reason that the brunet would be angry about Elian's confession... Unless Jack's own confession was a test of whether or not Elian was of the same proclivity as his fathers. Perhaps Jack killed his fathers out of hatred bred into him by the priests. No. His heart told him to be calm. Jack had said that he'd never even seen a priest. Besides, the Jack he'd come to know did not seem like the hateful kind of person, and in fact, seemed to be the indirect victim of such people.  
  
Then again, his mind said, neither did the other people who'd taken him. After all, they had only been so keen on helping him until they drove him out for the mere accusation of being "different" or the fear of being called a lover of "abominations." Maybe Jack was preparing to rape him, then. It would make sense. The farmboy probably had no company for sexual release at the farm, and was probably going to use Elian as a repayment for the help. The blond was surprised that he didn't mind the idea of doing sexual favours for Jack. After all, the brunet had done so much for him, it was entirely understandable would he want to ask for a price from Elian.  
  
The blond was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs and a growing pool of reddish-yellow light outside the slightly-ajar door to the room. In strode Jack with an oil lamp in his hand, coming to a halt just beyond the door frame. The visage of the farmboy was intimidating, if not terrifying. The light of the lamp flickered and danced as flames so loved to do, casting perpetually changing shadows on Jack's face. Without the day's light to illuminate the darkened side of his face, what stood before Elian was a creature with a mask of light on one half of his face, and one of shadow on the other. There was nothing lecherous about Jack's expression, no lust in his eyes. There was only a measure of rigidity in his composure, a grim determination on his face.  
  
Elian was afraid of this Jack and he flinched when the brunet took a step towards his side of the bed. He'd half-expected the rough grabbing and manhandling to begin but it didn't come. The brunet strode over to the nightstand and lit the tallow candle there, shedding more light into the room. He went over to the desk and lit a candle. Over to the chest of drawers, and a candle. Finally, he walked over to the other side of the bed, where an oil lamp sat on the nightstand. He lit that one too and set the one in his hand beside it. The twin flames dancing away from each other as though afraid of being consumed by the other.  
  
Jack sat on the bed, his back to Elian, his face buried in his hands. "Jack?" Elian said, rolling onto his side whilst making sure his feet made no sudden movements. He winced when he managed to bend his right foot forward. He'd been so occupied with all that had happened recently, that he'd forgotten the pain in his feet. It was beginning to return, though very slowly. He reached over with a pale hand and managed to just barely touch Jack's shoulder, causing a conflagration of frost crystals to erupt and to spider-web over the linen of Jack's tunic.  
  
"What?" Jack remained still where he sat, looking away from Elian. There was no aggression in the brunet's voice, only incredulity.  _"You do, too?"_  he whispered, a hint of disbelief in his voice. He wasn't dreaming. That much was certain when he managed to stub his other toe on one of the beams in the stables. Pain had raced up his entire leg and he had to stop to hop on one foot for a moment, cursing under his breath the whole time.   
  
One of the foolish things his parents told him the priests liked to say was that swearing could send a person to hell. Needless to say, after that talk, Nyko had taken to teaching Jack every single profanity conceivable under the sun. They were going to hell, anyway, said Nyko, why not have fun while they were at it?  
  
The truth of the matter had not entirely set on Jack until he had found himself standing in the room, eyes locked with Elian. Here was another person that _could_  love him like Kyle had Nyko. Here was another person who would not drive him out, hurt him,  _kill_  him for being himself. Here was another kindred soul. And he was leaving as soon as he was better. It had been almost too much to bear, and Jack was thankful for having to light the candles so that Elian would not see his face when the thought crushed his heart.   
  
The pleading in Jack's voice gave Elian pause. He stopped, fingers hovering tentatively over Jack's shoulder. He could only imagine the thoughts running through Jack's mind at the moment. The blond had to admit that his own mind was no more calm. A whirling tempest of emotions and questions threatened to overwhelm him, but he could not afford that moment of weakness. Not even around someone who'd given him no reason to fear. "I do" Elian said, slowly. The words sent a tremble down Jack's frame and the blond saw it clear as day.  
  
"And you're leaving when you're better?" Jack still couldn't bear to look at Elian. Elian had answered the question before, but Jack needed to hear the answer again. The brunet desperately, foolishly hoped that Elian would change his mind. Now that he knew that the stranger, the creature of winter that he'd been so fortunate to come upon was much like him in his proclivities, Jack was almost tempted to stop allowing Elian the kindness he had been so far, to stop himself from getting too near or seeing too much of the blond.  
  
He was tempted to come to Elian's side only whenever the blond needed something he could not get himself. The brunet knew that it was the only way, the single course of action that would ensure that he would not get too attached, that his heart would not be torn asunder when Elian left. He laughed bitterly when he realized it was now too late for that. A deep, but nonetheless important part of him had fallen for the blond the moment he'd set eyes on the strange eldritch creature. There was no hope for him. His heart would get broken no matter what.  
  
"Jack..." Softly. His name dropped from Elian's lips with such softness that Jack felt his heart flutter in his chest. It was not the answer that he'd been looking for. It seemed as though the blond was simply avoiding the question. The unspoken answer was the one that Jack hoped against hope the would not hear. Perhaps it was rage at the world that the one person he'd hoped would understand and not leave him alone would be the one that would not stay, or perhaps it was loathing that he couldn't simply be himself and stop living in isolation for fear of his own safety, but for some reason anger and resentment rose like bitter bile in the brunet's stomach.   
  
"Are you leaving when you're better?!" Jack repeated, desperation laced with resentment evident in his voice. As he spoke, he whirled around, snatching Elian's wrist out of the air with an iron grip. He'd not meant to be so harsh, but the thought of Elian leaving him alone had filled him with such dread that it clouded his judgment. The blond jumped in surprise at the sudden, uncalled-for aggression. His eyes dilated in fear, his heart thumped in his chest, and adrenalin surged in his veins. From Jack's hand down to his elbow, a discordant layer of frost lacking the beauty and gentleness of Elian's normal ice raced. The cold was far harsher than the tender and almost gentle ice that had graced the brunet's face not too long ago when Elian touched it.  
  
Elian tried to pull his arm away, but Jack would not, could not let go. The brunet's tawny eyes were filled with a such overwhelming fear and hurt that Elian shivered and averted his gaze. "Jack. Jack... it hurts!" He begged. The grip loosened. The brunet's hand slipped. Elian snatched back his arm and massaged his wrist, holding it near his chest. He couldn't bear to look at Jack.   
  
A broken sound escaped Jack's lips, one that cracked the ice that Elian had allowed to surround his heart. Gods the sound was so piteous and pathetic. The brunet was just staring at the bed, himself unable to look at the blond. "Yes..." whispered Elian, so softly it sounded like the gentlest breeze. Elian's answer was as though a hammer brought down upon a sheet of glass. Jack's world shattered, and something inside him broke. He didn't want to be alone again.  
  
"Gods..." Jack sobbed. A shudder wracked his entire body. Elian felt the bed quiver in turn. A strangled yelp tore itself out of Elian's throat when Jack lunged at him, wrapping strong arms around his slender, fragile frame. The blond feared that a rib would break, or that Jack would inadvertently cause more damage to his feet, but neither of those things happened.   
  
The larger, more physically sound young man, despite his evident better health, seemed to melt like putty into the embrace. Jack shook, and he shuddered, and he drew gasping breaths as he fought in vain against the ravaging torrent of fear that tore through him. "Gods.  _Please_. Don't leave me..."  
  
Elian had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself from the unexpected, and frankly, unwelcome physical contact. Jack was entirely on top of him. The brunet's arms were wrapped firmly around and under the blond's torso with his legs to either side of Elian's own. Jack's chin was on his shoulder, and he could feel a dampness growing on his clothing there, brought on by Jack's tears. Each shaky breath of air that the brunet sucked into his lungs sent tremors through Elian beneath him. As the blond began to regain his composure, the ice that was beginning to crawl over Jack's body slowed and eventually ground to a halt.  
  
"Jack." As Jack's distress subsided, so too did his tears and his trembling. Elian drew some energy from the heat of Jack's body, and using all his borrowed strength, pushed the brunet off of him. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but there was nothing he could do to take away the innate roughness of the gesture. "What...?" Jack looked at him with wide, pleading, hurt eyes and a trembling lower lip, almost like a child.   
  
The expression horrified Elian. It was worse than anything he'd ever seen, worse still than dead, frozen faces staring at him with accusing eyes. Jack's heart was breaking, like Elian's. Neither of them liked the situation they were in, the tragic truth of their relationship. Victims of his murderous hands were one thing for Elian, but knowing that he was about to leave this young man who'd been nothing but kind to the blond and break his heart so much that he would suffer for the rest of his life, was another magnitude of terrifying greater. Had he had any more space, he would have edged away from the brunet. He shook his head and stared at his feet, trembling. "I can't."  
  
Jack sat up, drawing his feet to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees where he buried his face. "Why?" he asked, voice small and broken.  
  
"I just...  _can't_ " said Elian, eyes now trained on one of the flickering candles, watching as the flame danced at the mercy of the fickle wind. Maybe he'd been wrong to think that Jack was doing all of this out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe the farmlad was simply doing all he could to not stay alone. Gods knew that Elian knew the feeling of spending day upon day upon day without companionship. However, he could not settle with his conscience risking Jack's life simply so that he would not have to live with his fear of being alone.  
  
The two sat there for a moment, Elian on one edge of the bed, Jack curled up by the other. Nothing broke the silence between them but the sounds of the forest and the whisper of the breeze. The bed rustled as Jack straightened and rose from it, wiping the tears in his eyes away with his forearm. Elian's eyes followed him, wary but sympathetic, as he went around the room blowing out the candles one by one, leaving only the lamp in his hand as the only light. He cast one final look at Elian, eyes still watery with tears and filled with pleading, before turning to leave. "Jack." The brunet stopped before crossing the threshold of the door. "Goodnight."  
  
The brunet made a choked sound and nodded slowly without looking at Elian before vanishing into the night.  
  
\---  
  
The last of the jovial music died down as the village feast to see the merchants off reached its end. The bare-footed girls who danced to the music of tambourines where nowhere to be seen, probably having returned to their homes as it was not right for women to be out and about in the cover of night, as the priests claimed. The Spring Feast, as the townspeople called it, was one of the few times that they got to celebrate in the village. All other festivals had been decried by the priests as pagan, and forbidden by the sun gods. The spring feast, though, fed even the priests with some of the most succulent foods that the village knew. It was probably for that one reason that the festival had yet to be banned from their annual celebrations.  
  
Tristan and his men stumbled back to the tavern. The inn was still full, providing board for the merchants that were not to leave until the next morning, but the bard's absence and the lack of northmen willing to drink before embarking on their long journey had freed some room in the tavern. The gruff men had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep in beds -- even the most uncomfortable ones.   
  
All four of them were drunk and full of the delectable dishes served at the feast. There was suckling pig and goat and sheep and duck all drenched in the most glorious gravy and paired with sweet and sour berries freshly picked from the woods nearby. Tristan had tried his best to not gorge himself. They did, after all, have a mission to pursue. Truthfully, though, what he did not eat, he drank its weight in ale. It was all for the futile effort of trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Iven had been right. He had been stupid. He had been a terrible father. He had left his daughter,  _all alone_  right after her mother had died.  
  
When they entered the tavern, it was dark save for the counter, where Iven sat puffing away on his pipe. No one else was there, everyone else was probably going to socialize until long after the feast, into the wee hours of morn. Tristan was slung over the shoulders of two of the men, deliriously drunk. He motioned at the portly master of the tavern and said "Two more" flapping his hand, which was hanging limply by one of the men's shoulders, up and down with two fingers raised.  
  
Iven raised an eyebrow at the men. They all just shrugged. With a sigh, probably out of exasperation at the sheer amount of drink that they had so far consumed in their short stay, Iven filled two tankards and handed them to the one man who was currently unoccupied with Tristan. They dragged the brunet upstairs, his feet thudding dully as they collided with the face of each step. He groaned in pain, though far too intoxicated to actually care.  
  
For the coin they were willing to spend, the four weary and drunk travelers had managed to rent two rooms for the night. The men looked at each other. No one really seemed to want to be in the same room as Tristan given that he was entirely debilitatingly drunk. Sure, they'd spent a week on the chase together and seen each other naked more than they would've liked, but, if anything, none of them had thrown up on someone else in the group. Such an event was surely only a matter of time, and something that Tristan was likely to do through the course of the night. The man, of fiery hair and pale complexion, carrying the tankards shrugged and said "Fine. I'll stay with him."  
  
It was the redhead that had fainted, when they first arrived, at the mere mention of plague hurlers. No one in their home village considered him much of a man, but he'd demanded to come along in order to prove himself. He'd confronted Tristan before the group was able to leave, and through some strange twist of fate was able to convince the brunet to allow him to come along. The two other men looked at each other and were more than happy to let the other take the burden that was their inebriated 'leader'. They dragged Tristan in, who seemed to have dozed off, and set him on a chair. They knew better than to put him in bed lest he vomit and choke on the regurgitated contents of his own stomach.  
  
The two other men hurriedly left the room, wanting no part in the mess that was invariably going to happen. The redhead left in the room with Tristan closed the door and bolted it shut. He walked over to the nightstand where he'd placed the tankards of ale and sprinkled Tristan's face with a few droplets to wake him up. The gruff man started and opened his eyes blearily. Seeing the tankard of ale being dangled in front of him, he reached out with both hands, grabbed it, tilted his head back, and downed all of it. Rivulets of the amber liquid ran down the sides of his mouth.  
  
"Thanks. Re--" Tristan's eyes widened as he felt a gurgle run up from his stomach to his throat. The other man averted his gaze as Tristan upchucked everything he'd just drank back into the tankard. The redhead held a fist to his mouth, trying not to gag himself. When he returned his gaze to Tristan, the other man noticed the leader of their small group sniffing the tankard and preparing to drink the vomit in it.  
  
"No! Don't do that!" He shuddered in disgust and gingerly snatched the tankard from Tristan's hands, trying his best to avoid the trickles of ejecta that spilled over the sides. He walked over to one of the windows, threw open the shutters and dumped the tankard out.   
  
"Rein..." groaned Tristan. The other man, hearing his name turned and raised an eyebrow at Tristan. "Reeeein... what the fuck happened to our lives?" Rein shook his head and grabbed the flint and firestone before walking to the fireplace in the room and striking up a flame in the hearth. "What the fuck... happened to you? You used to be one of the bravest guys I knew. N-n-now you're a... wimp. Whaaaat the... fuck?"  
  
"Our lives went in different directions, Tristan." Rein pulled up a chair to sit in front of the brunet. Truly, their lives had taken entirely different roads. They had been the best of friends, an inseparable duo, back when they were children. It was funny how a single accident could change so much of how people saw you.   
  
A deeply-rooted fear of the supernatural world had been set in Rein since that fateful day they'd almost died in the forest, and none of the villagers, praised as he and Tristan had been before, let him live that fear down. His self-confidence had been absolutely destroyed and he went to live at the extremes of the village as a tanner, mired day in and day out in the noxious odours of the tannery, much like his life was mired in the shit that was the cynicism of others.  
  
"You married that bitch." Tristan's wife had been the redhead's biggest detractor. She had evidently managed to convince the brunet that the creature of myth that they had met and had suffered at the hands of, was merely an illusion cooked up by their childish brains. Rein wasn't so easily convinced. He still had the scar that ran the length of his back. The fiery-haired man stood and walked in front of Tristan. The other man looked up at him. "How the fuck did  _you_  make the sweetest little girl with that horrid, hateful woman?"  
  
"When you're drunk, a hole's a hole to fill with your cum, Rein." Rein spat in disgust. To think that such innoncence and beauty and kindness could have come from the union of his best friend and his worst enemy was daunting. It was almost unfathomable, if not for the fact that he knew that Tristan's daughter was the striking image, both in countenance and personality, of her father. Praised be the gods for making the seed of man run strong.  
  
"Your daughter always visited me in the tannery, even when I told her not to because it could soil her clothes. It often did, too. She would often come by worried that maybe I needed a friend, or some lunch, or whatever she had in mind that day to worry about," Tristan chuckled and tried to straighten himself on the chair. He failed miserably and decided to just sling his arm over the backrest.   
  
"She was the sweetest little girl I've ever known. You'd be surprised how many of them come to the tannery just to see the vile life I led for themselves. A lot of them would jeer and laugh, but your daughter never did that, to her own detriment too." The other girls had often ended up mocking Tristan's daughter as much as Rein. "I bet your wife would always tell you how vile I am for charming your little girl, huh?" Tristan nodded. "I bet she told you that I was only after her because I was a depraved creature with deviant desires that wanted to fuck children." Tristan again nodded. "Did you believe her?"  
  
"Yeah." Rein bit back the tears at the corner of his eyes. Here was his childhood friend -- best friend, even -- admitting that he believed the bitch that had made sure to make Rein's life miserable. Here was Tristan admitting that he saw Rein as a monster who deserved to live outside the village. "I  _did_... I don't... know why..." Tristan's rolled his head onto his shoulder and looked up at Rein. "Maybe... I was hoping... we could maybe... get along someday... Her and I..." He shrugged, bouncing his head up and down. "For Liana... you know?"  
  
"How did that work for out you?" spat Rein, towering over his childhood friend, looking him in the eye for the first time in so many years. It almost disgusted him, this shell of the man that he'd once known. The young Tristan was brave, strong, kind, and took no shit from anyone. This Tristan was none of that, he was a drunk, wasting away his life because he did not think it was worth much. The man probably would have long offed himself if not for his daughter.  
  
"Hah..." Tristan snorted derisively. "Bitch was... never... satisfied..." Rein had figured as much. "Told me... I was an idiot... with his brain between his legs... in his too-small cock..." Gods above, Rein had not thought she would go that low. To insult a man's pride was one thing, but to insult his manhood was altogether, almost blasphemous. Then again, he asked himself, why was he surprised at all? "She got around the village... believe me... It's a fucking wonder... Bitch didn't... get knocked up..." Tristan tried to stand only to fall back down onto the chair.  
  
"If we both hate her so much... Why the fuck are we here anyway? In the middle of nowhere, hunting down the very embodiment of Winter, for revenge?" Tristan laughed. It was pained, not hearty. Bitter, not sweet. His eyes seemed focused on a faraway point, lost in the sights of his mind's eye, those fantasies contrived only by the drunken mind, wrought from the heart's deepest desires. "We don't even know where home is. What about your daughter? Do you honestly think we can go back now? We've pretty much lost everything!"  
  
"I-" Tristan coughed, his voice faltering. "I don't... know, Rein..." His eyes drifted shut. "I... don't... know..." Tristan dozed off and Rein just watched over him with a grim, pained expression etched into the lines of his face. What the fuck had they done with their lives? They had been so young and full of hope, once. Now here they were, himself a fragile tanner, with hide that would last longer than most men in the soil, and Tristan, a broken man with a beloved daughter whom he had probably forever lost in a moment of rashness.  
  
The silence stretched until Rein could take it no more. He tapped the far more inebriated man on the face, rudely awakening him from his doze. Tristan snorted and cracked open his eyes, staring blearily up at Rein. "Why her?" asked the redhead, apathy evident in his voice.  
  
"I was young..." Rein shook his head. "And she was... right... about one thing... I thought with my cock..." The fiery-haired man averted his gaze in revulsion. He walked over to the nightstand and began to gulp down the other tankard of ale that was left there as Tristan continued speaking. "She was a... bitch, sure... but I wanted to... fuck. She had a... pretty enough face, and gods her tits were supple..." Rein's cheeks felt like they were on fire. Tristan absentmindedly scratched at his crotch and his growing stiffness there, brought upon by idle thought of his wife when they'd been younger. "And you wouldn't... believe it... Rein..."  
  
The other man turned to face Tristan. The drunk was leaning back in his chair, openly stroking his cock through the fabric of his breeches, mouth slightly agape in pleasure as he remembered his first few trysts of passion with his wife. She had been much more interested in him back then. "Her cunt... tasted... sweet..." Tristan groaned. "And when she got... wet... She was so slippery... and warm... and tight..." Rein's eyes were fixated on Tristan's crotch, but the image of the other man having coitus with his wife was repulsive to him.  
  
Rein walked over to Tristan and stood over him, watching as he groaned in pleasure and rubbed his cock. The drunken man was fully aroused, and a wetness was growing on the front of his breeches from the tip of his cock. "Fuck... I haven't had... a good fuck... in a while..." lamented Tristan. Rein thought about the day, and what Iven had said. Apart from Tristan, the only thing Rein had left to lose was his life. He had no illusions that Tristan was still his 'friend,' he'd long given up hope that they would go back to the bond they'd shared in childhood. Fate had taken them in two drastically different directions, and there was no going back, not against the vicious tides of destiny.  
  
Rein leaned in and caught Tristan's slightly-agape lips in his own. There was very little resistance at the beginning, as the brunet was caught off guard. The redhead slipped his tongue into Tristan's mouth, and quickly withdrew it, shoving Tristan away when the brunet bit down on him. The redhead wiped his mouth on his arm and spat out a glob of blood. "The... fuck are you... doing... Rein...?" said Tristan when Rein stepped back from him. The drunk man tried to push the other away, but was too weak and compromised by the alcohol to do anything substantial.   
  
"A hole's a hole when you're drunk, Tristan..." Rein dove back in and slammed his lips against Tristan's. He slapped away the other man's arm and rubbed Tristan's manhood through the torn-up linen of his breeches, giving the other no chance to bite him again. Tristan moaned into Rein's mouth. Eyes clouded by inebriation and a haze of lust, despite his discomfort with the entire situation, Tristan leaned his head back as Rein knelt before him and began to frantically untie his breeches.   
  
Tristan's jet-black hair hung down, slick with sweat from the heat of the burning hearth, over the back of the chair for his head was tossed back in pleasure and anticipation of more to come. His conscious self, hidden in the back of his mind, was dreading the act, but had no power over his body. His cock, having been denied any sort of release other than through his hand for the longest time, ached for another's touch,  _any_  touch. Every tender graze to the tumescent organ sent bolts of pleasure through his very being, further weakening his already-compromised resolve.   
  
Rein pulled the linen down, freeing Tristan's turgid manhood from the constricting confines of his breeches. It sprung to life, standing tall and proud in front of the redhead's face. Part of Tristan was still fighting the sensations, trying his most damnable best to not give in to the violation of his body, but to no avail. As he tried to rise from the seat, it only took one firm shove by Rein to push him back down. Tristan put his hands to either side of Rein's face, fingers messing up his fiery curls. He tried to push Rein's head away, but the redhead was able to just brush off the drunken man's attempts.  
  
He breathed onto Tristan's cock and he saw a shiver of ecstasy race up and down the prostrate man's body. When the fiery-haired man moved ever closer, licking his lips hungrily, he inhaled the pungent musk of Tristan's groin. They had not had proper baths in days. The last spring that they had come across had been two days ago. The smell of Tristan's cock and stones was entirely to be expected. Nevertheless, Rein was not about to be deterred. The icy fire of the ale in his veins drove him to do what he had never had the courage to do in their own village.  
  
"Gods... Rein... What are you... doing...?" groaned Tristan as the redhead released another breath over his aching cock, making him harder than he'd ever recalled being.  
  
"Never had your cock sucked before?" asked Rein in bemused surprise. Tristan shook his head. The redhead smiled and ran his tongue up and down the shaft of Tristan's manhood. The black-haired man arched off the chair in pleasure as the sheer sensations on his cock shattered whatever resistance he had left. In his mind's eye, his conscious thoughts instead imagined the redhead to be his wife, in order to cope with the violation of his manhood by another man.  
  
Rein slipped the head of Tristan's cock into the warm, wet confines of his mouth and began to suck, slurping up the pre-come that had been dripping from the other man's member. His own cock was straining in his breeches, and a spot of wetness was rapidly growing where the tip of his manhood touched the fabric. In one motion, Rein swallowed Tristan's entire sizable manhood -- despite what the bitch had said, Tristan had a decently sized cock -- all the while running his tongue along its underside.  
  
Tristan arched off the chair, his toes curling in rapturous pleasure. He ran his hands through Rein's reddish locks, fixing in his mind's eye that the other man was his bitch of a wife in the years before she had turned out to be a horrible, horrible woman. He pushed Rein's head down on his member, ignoring the slight gagging that the redhead experienced at the sudden intrusion of hands forcing him down on the cock.  
  
Rein felt Tristan's member swell and with little effort pulled himself off of the black-haired man's cock. He stroked the member once, twice, thrice, and grabbed both cock and balls in a vice-like grip as Tristan grunted, trying to get sweet relief. Rein pulled, and Tristan stood, following the man who held his manhood without question. Rein slammed his lips against Tristan's, forcing his tongue into the cavity of the other man's mouth, running it across Tristan's tongue and teeth. Tristan squirmed, but with his precious jewels in Rein's fist, he dared not do anything lest they be crushed.  
  
When they broke apart, Tristan managed to gain lucidity for but a moment and asked "Are you... going to... fuck me?" Rein considered Tristan for a moment before giving his parts a squeeze.  
  
"No. You're fucking me." Much to the dismay of his better judgment, Tristan's cock twitched in excitement. "Now get naked."  
  
Being careful not to move too much against the grip that Rein had on his tackle, Tristan slipped his tunic off of his body and stepped out of his breeches which were pooled at his feet. "Good" cooed Rein before letting go of Tristan's cock. "Don't touch yourself" he said sternly, to which Tristan nodded meekly. Rein shed his garb in mere moments, slipping out of the restraining clothes with unexpected dexterity. He grabbed Tristan by the loins once more and pushed him onto the bed. The jet-haired man groaned, as Rein let go of his member which promptly sprang back up, pointed skywards.  
  
"Y-you're a... fucking faggot..." Tristan said, matter-of-factly, with a hint of wonder in his voice. His ability to speek, hampered with alcohol, was progressively deteriorating because of Rein's ministrations. The redhead was licking his manhood up and down again, making pure pleasure surge through his veins, up to his clouded conscious and down to his curled toes.  
  
"Ha. Well... You're liking this. You're as much a faggot as I am." Rein said as he rose and positioned himself over Tristan's cock. "I'll show you what you've been missing." There was resentment in the redhead's voice, after all, his childhood friend and his secret beloved had abandoned him all for the woman that made every living moment of his living agony.   
  
Above that, though, was pent-up desire. Rein had lusted for so long after Tristan, repressed because of the stigma against his kind, that it now practically dripped from the very words that left his lips. He lined up Tristan's spit-slicked cock with his hole, twitching in anticipation, and lowered himself onto the brunet's manhood.  
  
Both men groaned in sweet unison as the pressure built and Tristan's cockhead popped into Rein's tight ring. The raven-haired man gasped in pleasure at the warm tightness of Rein's asshole, and his long pent-up seed was sent churning in his nuts. Tristan thrust weakly up into Rein as the redhead slowly, inexorably slipped himself lower and lower onto the drunken man's pole. Tristan was nigh on delirious with pleasure. Not even his wife's cunt, that had seemed to fit him like a glove the few times they'd fucked, could even come close to comparing with the pleasure that the warm, moist grip that Rein's ass provided.  
  
It wasn't long before Rein had slipped Tristan's entire cock inside his ass. Tristan was groaning weakly in pleasure from the all-enveloping, soft, pulsating tightness of Rein's hole. He began to thrust. Up. Down. It was Rein's turn to curl his toes in pleasure when Tristan found that button inside him that sent bursts of electrical pleasure through his body and dots swimming across his eyes. Slowly, Rein raised and lowered his ass onto Tristan's member, relishing in the sensations it sent coursing through his body as it pushed that tender lump inside of him again and again.  
  
"Don't deny..." Rein panted "...that you're loving this." There was a smile on the redhead's face, not only one of pleasure, but one of satisfaction. The bitch that was Tristan's wife had believed herself better than Rein in all matters. The way Tristan writhed in absolute rapturous ecstasy underneath Rein proved otherwise. At least, in one sense, he had the final laugh, as he was able to prove to her husband that the one thing he had married her for was nothing short of unremarkable.   
  
Finding some strength, probably from the consuming lust that was ravaging his mind and body, Tristan managed to push Rein off of himself. "Get... on your hands... and knees... faggot..." panted Tristan, his cock dripping with clear, sticky pre-come as the dazed Rein processed the command. The redhead was more than happy to oblige and, with his head down and rump in the air, presented Tristan with the warm hole his cock desired. Without so much as a warning, Tristan slammed his member into Rein, making the other man cry out in both pain and pleasure.  
  
The raven-haired man drew his cock out entirely, slipping out with a plop, before slamming it back in. His nuts swung and slapped the skin of Rein's ass as the redhead squirmed in ecstasy. Tristan began to pump in and out of the warm channel faster and faster, with more and more animalistic grunts as Rein began to buck against his motions.  
  
The redhead was painfully hard and his own dripping cock was making a puddle on the linen sheets. He was about to reach down to stroke himself when his hands were pulled to the head of the bed and pinned down there by Tristan. The drunken man began to pump into Rein faster, his thrusts falling out of their rhythm as Rein felt Tristan's cock swell inside of him.  
  
The redhead felt his own nuts churning with seed he had not spilled in over a week. He arched his back in final, absolute ecstasy as Tristan rammed into that sensitive spot inside him again. With a loud moan ripped from his throat, Rein's cock began to spurt its white sticky seed onto the bed. Tristan groaned as the muscles of Rein's ass constricted around his cock and pulsed with each spurt, as though milking him. It was enough to send him over the edge and he exploded, sending his seed spilling forth into Rein with such force that some of it came right back out.  
  
It was right after that sweet bliss of release that Tristan passed out, collapsing onto Rein, his still-hard cock remaining lodged firmly inside the redhead. As Rein descended from the orgasmic high, a tear rolled down his face. Finally. After all these years. Even if the raven-haired man had been drunk, Rein had finally managed to show Tristan just how much he'd loved him. The redhead tried to move, and with each motion, Tristan's seed deep inside him seemed to slosh about. He was unable to get very far, Tristan was far too heavy.  
  
Rein wasn't complaining. At least for one night, he was able to feel what he'd always wanted to feel: Tristan inside him. It was a shame that the bitch had wasted the other man's life away without letting him know what the true love between partners was. If anything he was grateful to the little girl for at least showing Tristan how to love at all.  
  
How the brunet would react to their compromising position in the morning, Rein did not know. Nor did he care, not right now. He allowed himself to drift off into the warm embrace of sleep, satisfied, but not entirely sure whether he'd done right.  
  
Deep inside, and in the eyes of the gods of his people, he knew that he had not.  
  
\---  
  
Jack had cried himself to sleep. He simply could not understand why Elian would not want to stay. After all, he knew that the blond had been running away from something horrible for so long. He thought that Elian was going to be relieved to finally have a safe haven for him. He was wrong. The blond still wanted to go. Still wanted to leave Jack despite the fact that both of them knew that there would probably be no one else like the other. Jack didn't understand why Elian would want to leave him to his loneliness despite all the kindness he'd shown the blond.  
  
The brunet's eyes shot open in the middle of the dark before dawn, feeling a cold howling gale in the room, and hearing the nearby frantic barking of Glaise. He cast his gaze around the room, heart seized by a sudden, chilling terror. Ice was beginning to spiderweb along the walls, frost beginning to spread thick over the floor. The door to his room was itself slightly ajar, but stuck in place by the ice that had grown underneath and over it. Jack sat bolt upright and drew the sheets about him.  _"Elian."_  he whispered in alarm.  
  
Jack hissed in discomfort when he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor by his bed was freezing cold and covered by a thin veneer of delicate frost. He gritted his teeth and persevered, tearing the door open. As soon as the door was out of the way, Jack was buffeted by winds reminiscent of the few blizzards he'd experienced in his life. With arms held in front of his face, he battled his way to the room where Elian was. The soles of his feet felt numb from the bitter cold of the floor, and he was surprised that he had yet to slip.  
  
The door of his parents' old room stood fully ajar. Inside was a scene of utter chaos. Frost and snowflakes large and thick whirled about in the strong winds that issued from Elian. Glaise was huddled in a corner, barking like there was no tomorrow, inexplicably spared from the wrath of the storm. The bed itself shimmered in the dim moonlight with a thin latticework of frost covering it.  
  
Jack ran up to the bed, trying his best to keep his balance and jumped on to spare his feet from the biting cold of the icy floor. Elian was tossing and turning, mumbling unintelligible words as tears streamed down his eyes. "Elian!" Jack yelled, trying to get himself heard over the gale-force winds that threatened to send him tumbling from the bed. He leaned over Elian and grabbed a hold of the blond, grimacing as vicious frost began to spread over the skin of his arms. "Elian!" He shook the blond.  
  
"Elian! It's me, Jack!" The blond stiffened, went limp, then drew a deep shuddering gasp of breath as his eyes shot open and locked with Jack's. A long strangled scream was all the warning that Jack received before pure frost struck out from the blond, covering and freezing him where he leaned over Elian, turning his tawny brown eyes into dead frosted blue. The blond's gaze darted about the room in frantic confusion for a few moments before the delirium of the nightmare lifted from them.  
  
Much to his horror, it was Jack's frozen eyes that first met his lucid gaze and it tore another scream from his throat. "Jack?" Panic was rising in his voice. The wind died down and the snowflakes hung still in the air. "Jack?!"  
  
No. This couldn't be happening again. He truly was a monster. Fuck. "Jack! No. No. Nonononono..." Elian sobbed, cupping Jack's face with its covering of frost. The blond lamented the despair that his curse had to bring to even the innocent.  
  
 _"Jack!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. The story's starting to pick up, that's for sure.
> 
> I wanna hear your thoughts about Tristan's character. Do you want to see more of him? Find out more about his story? How about Rein? How do you feel about what he did to Tristan?
> 
> Finally, do you think Elian would find any good reason to stay with Jack?
> 
> Anyway, all the usual stuff! Comment, because I want to see your thoughts on the story! If you want to reach me, shoot me an ask over on my [tumblr!](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)
> 
> Here's a preview for next week's chapter:
> 
> _Elian scoffed. "Perhaps it was to burden my mother, or perhaps it was to punish Vamara for the sins of my father, or perhaps the gods had simply decided it was time to fuck with the mortals..." The blond shook his head. "I don't know, Jack. No one knows that the gods think._ I _think they've abandoned us, and that this--" Elian said with a burst of frost crystals from his hand that showered down glittering onto the sheets to emphasize his point. "--was probably their last 'fuck you' to the world."_


	7. Curse

"Jack!" Glaise, feeling the buffeting gale come to a grinding halt, bounded from the corner he'd been confined to, onto the bed. He jumped onto Elian's lap and started licking the blond's face with worried whining before repeatedly nudging the side Jack's frozen face. Elian's heart felt as though it had been torn in two. Had he killed the one person in the entire godsforsaken world that had shown him what at least seemed to be true compassion, sincere kindness?  
  
The blond threw his arms around Jack's neck and buried his face in the crook of the frozen brunet's shoulder. "Jack. Don't do this..." he begged. Glaise nuzzled Elian's belly and pulled his paws over his eyes, making mournful noises that Elian, had he the faculties to do so, would have mirrored. "Please..." A single tear fell from Elian's eyes, for once not freezing into a crystalline droplet as it descended, and splashed onto Jack's arm. Almost instantly, the ice began to thaw, and Jack's skin that had turned to the colour of Elian's ice regained its healthy glow.  
  
In the rest of the house, the ice began to lift from wherever it could be found. Great elegant cracks fanned inwards from the edges of the vast sheets that Elian's nightmare-induced expulsion of power had produced. Every piece of ice lifted from the surface that it covered before fracturing into countless tiny crystals that shimmered as they evaporated into the air.  
  
Faster and faster, the thaw travelled, sending the ice back whence it came. Glaise was the first to notice the miraculous event and began to bark enthusiastically, sending tremors through Elian's body. The blond opened his eyes to watch the last of the ice in the bedroom rise into the air and vanish in a puff of beautiful twinkling crystals.   
  
He looked with eyes shining hopefully at Jack. Sapphire blue eyes widened as cold, dead, ice-blue eyes returned to their soft tawny colour. Elian could barely contain the relieved and disbelieving laugh that jumped out of his throat when he saw the ice that had moments ago held Jack prisoner disappear.  
  
"Elian..." Jack smiled at Elian, his voice bleary as though he'd just woken up from a good long nap. The blond pulled him in for a tight embrace, forgetting for but a precious moment what had happened between them before they had both parted ways to the whimsical land of slumber.  
  
"Gods..." Elian breathed into Jack's chest. Another incredulous laugh escaped his lips. "Gods you're alright!" Glaise managed to wedge his way in between the tangle of arms that was Jack and Elian, licking both their faces and wagging his tail enthusiastically.  
  
"Glaise!" protested Elian, trying to wrest his face away from the frenetic dog. He held on to Jack for a few moments more before allowing the brunet to finally pull back and survey what had happened in the room. A yawn split the brunet's face and he stretched out one of his arms, using the other to stifle the breath that escaped him.   
  
Jack fell over backwards, having lost his balance due to Glaise pouncing on his chest. With a chuckle, the brunet sat back up and set Glaise to the side. He regarded Elian for a moment, a somber expression slipping in the place of the happy one that had been there mere heartbeats ago. "What happened?" Jack took a deep breath and took Elian's hand in his own.   
  
The blond flinched at the unexpected touch. Jack felt ice shoot up his fingers for an instant, but it melted away almost as soon as it had come. Why he was being so forward, the brunet did not entirely know. "Your... your...  _power_... it's terrifying."  
  
The smile on the blond's face slipped off almost as fast as the brunet's had. Elian looked past Jack and at one of the shutters that was allowing a dim light from the moon into the room. "I told you, I'm a monster..." He pulled his hand from Jack's grasp, folding his hands on his lap whilst trying his best to allay the fear that was building up inside of him. Had he finally crossed the line? Had he provided the straw that would break the camel's back? Was Jack finally done with him, now that he'd inadvertently threatened the brunet's life?  
  
"And I told you that you're not." Jack said firmly, folding his legs underneath him and fixing Elian with a stern but worried and sincere gaze. The brunet _really_  wanted Elian to stay, and he would do his damned best to convince the blond of it.  
  
"I almost killed you!" Elian shot back. Jack recoiled, both from the unexpected aggression from the blond, and from the revelation that he had almost died. He'd not remembered anything after he tried shaking Elian awake. "I almost killed you..." repeated the blond in a quieter voice, dropping his gaze to his feet. He felt shame and guilt rise in his stomach. He was despicable, putting Jack, the one person that had ever cared for him in his darkest hour, on the precipice of death.  
  
Jack tapped his knee nervously, not knowing what to do or what to say. Glaise nudged Elian's hip and whined before rolling onto his back and lifting a paw onto Elian's leg. "But I'm not dead, am I?" Jack asked, suddenly uncertain. Maybe the blond had some power over death as well. After all, Winter was the harbinger of the death of the land before Spring returned with new life. It stood to reason that perhaps Elian himself had control over the dead. The blond shook his head, no, they were both well and alive.  
  
"That doesn't change anything..." Elian rubbed his arm and made sure that he didn't meet Jack's eyes. "I still hurt you." Elian groaned and buried his face in his hands. The fear he had of Jack turning him away, kicking him out,  _hating_  him, had evaporated. His guilt and shame for almost killing the brunet, had not, and probably would not ever leave him. The faces of all those whom he'd ended with the wrath of his ice were burnt into his mind's eye, and despite Jack being seemingly alive and well before him, so was his.   
  
The spindles of frost that covered Jack's face, and the pale blue, dead eyes that were set in the sockets of his skull terrified Elian and no matter what he did, the vision would not leave his mind. "That's why I can't stay, Jack" Elian lamented. He did want to stay, by any means. Jack was the first person that had shown him any decency and provided him a safe place to live. His heart demanded it, wanting to nurture the little seed of infatuation for Jack that had taken root there yet his conscience would not allow it. He would not allow Jack to come by any more harm at his hands than he already had. "You're not safe with me."  
  
Jack stared at Elian, refusing to concede to the logic of the blond's words. "I'm not safe regardless." Jack reached over to Elian's side to scratch Glaise's belly, but seeing the hand approach him, the blond flinched. "Neither of us is safe." Jack paused before continuing grimly, "No one like us is safe."  
  
\---  
  
Rein awoke to sunlight streaming in through the window. It wasn't the pure brazen light of the day, but it was the pale gray light of the dawn. Tristan was still on top of him, still firmly lodged in his ass. The brunet's head was just beside his and Tristan could smell the stale ale in his breath. As the redhead moved, trying to wriggle his way out from underneath Tristan, he felt the other man's cock stir in his ass. This in turn sent blood rushing to the redhead's own long-neglected manhood.  
  
Before long, Tristan was fully erect within him, and Rein's length was throbbing with need. The raven-haired man had not yet stirred, fortunately for the redhead. Slowly and ever so gently, he fucked himself back and forth on Tristan's cock, each slow thrust sending Rein's own manhood bobbing up and down and leaking onto the sheets. Before long he felt the cock in his ass swell and pump its seed into him. He spewed his own onto the bed not too long afterwards.  
  
Still, Tristan slumbered. His snores were interrupted intermittently by grunts of pleasure as he moved himself around on top of Rein, but otherwise, he remained firmly rooted in sleep. Rein sighed. There was probably hell to pay coming, but he would enjoy the intimacy for as long as he could.  
  
\---  
  
An uncomfortable silence had fallen between the two men, the blond and the brunet, punctuated only by the panting of Glaise and the wagging of his tail. Jack was absentmindedly scratching the dog's stomach, and Elian was deep in thought. Perhaps it was fitting that they had some quiet in the darkness to themselves. After all, so much had happened in the span of less than a whole day. The world was bound to at least temporarily run out of things to throw at them to tilt their lives out of balance.  
  
Jack looked at Elian. The blond, feeling eyes on him, looked up at Jack. In the dim light of the room, their eyes met. Sapphire on agate. Elian's mouth opened, as though he was about to say something, but he stopped himself. He heard Jack hitch his breath in preparation, and then release it in a long exhalation after Elian refused to speak.   
  
It was the brunet that broke the silence first. "Why do you have these fearsome powers, anyway?" Jack was curious, perhaps morbidly so. He'd never seen such abilities manifest in anyone he'd ever known, never seen such authority over the domains of nature.   
  
Elian pondered the answer for a moment. He'd thought he'd known everything his entire life, but being plunged headfirst into the merciless world had cast a lot of doubt on what he thought was true and what he thought was false. "I've had these powers for as long as I can remember."   
  
Simply talking about his ice almost seemed to awaken it, and frozen fractals spiralled across the sheets where Elian touched them. "My mother and father told me that I've had them since birth, truthfully, and that where other newborn babes would wish for a mother's teat to suckle on, I preferred ice. Gods know how they figured that out." Elian held his hands out to Jack. "These hands have been cursed since the day of my birth, Jack." Elian paused.  _"Cursed"_  he emphasized, wringing his hands as though to rid them of the blood he knew stained them.  
  
"Cursed?" Jack whispered. Elian nodded. The brunet wasn't quite convinced. Sure, the blond's ice could sometimes be vicious, could sometimes be dangerous, could sometimes be painful, could sometimes even be fatal, but there was an inherent beauty to it that never quite left unless Elian was distressed. All Jack needed to do to know for sure the beauty of Elian's frost was to look down at the sheets where the latticework of ice crystals shimmered even in the dim, milky light of the moon that filtered into the room. "Don't you ever think that maybe the gods gave you this power for a reason?"  
  
Elian scoffed. "Perhaps it was to burden my mother, or perhaps it was to punish Vamara for the sins of my father, or perhaps the gods had simply decided it was time to fuck with us mere mortals..." The blond shook his head.   
  
"I don't know, Jack. No one knows that the gods think.  _I_  think they've abandoned us, and that this--" Elian said with a burst of frost crystals from his hand that showered down glittering onto the sheets to emphasize his point. "--was probably their last 'fuck you' to the world. A grand scheme to render chaos upon the land, and test their peoples' faiths."  
  
There was venom in Elian's words that Jack had not come to expect of him. Not with one glance at the blond would anyone think him capable of such contempt, but he was, and Jack could hear the proof of it. Jack licked his lips. They were a fair bit chapped because of the blizzard-esque winds that he'd had to deal with a short while ago, not to mention almost being frozen to death. To Jack it seemed as though Elian needlessly resented his powers when they were truly formidable and were probably keeping him alive. "I don't see why your powers are a curse, Elian."  
  
The blond laughed in disbelief, it was a bitter, pained laugh. "My ice almost killed you, and you don't see why it's a curse?" He'd taken Jack to be a bit ignorant of the outside world. Why would he not be, having lived on this farm his entire life, devoid of any contact with the world at large?   
  
He'd not thought that Jack was quite  _that_  innocent. Elian stared at his hands, the primary instruments of the curse that coursed through his veins. "Death and pain follow my ice." The blond was unable to tear his gaze away from his trembling hands. "I am winter. I am death.  _Only_  death."  
  
"No." Jack said, matter-of-factly. Elian's eyes shot up and locked with Jack's, as though asking what exactly he meant, incredulous, and to some extent, offended. "There is beauty in your ice, too." Jack thought back to when they had been in the clearing. "You were able to remedy the problem I was having with my eye using your ice..." Jack took a deep breath. He couldn't quite believe he was about to admit what he was about to admit. "And the other night... I watched you bathe... I saw no death, only beauty."  
  
"T-that was you?!" Elian, despite himself, turned crimson. He thought his ears were on fire. Fortunately for him, the moonlight was just dim enough to make the colouring of his face indistinguishable. Elian drew the sheets around his body and looked away, suddenly self-conscious around Jack. That being said, despite seeing him naked, the brunet had shown no sign of wanting anything sexual to do with him. There was a tiny part of Elian that was quite disappointed, truth be told. "W-why were you spying on me?!"  
  
It was Jack's turn to blush. He stammered for a moment before finding his words. "I-I wasn't spying on you!" He looked away from Elian, trying to hide his quickly reddening cheeks. "I was trying to scare away these men that I saw in the forest..." Jack twiddled his thumbs more than a little embarrassed at having revealed that he'd seen Elian naked.  
  
The statement gave Elian pause. He whirled to face Jack and with a grave voice asked "How many were there?" His voice trembled, and there was evident fear in it, as well as a hint of concern for Jack's wellbeing. Had he been hurt trying to scare them away?  
  
"There were four of them." Jack said. "Two were armed, and I overheard them talking." Glaise yipped. "I don't want odd travelers just wandering in this area, so I scare them off. But these men were different. They were talking about a faggot who killed one of the men's wives..."  
  
"Those were the men after me..." Elian gasped. "So you've known all this time that I killed someone?" He asked, eyes wide in surprise at the revelation. The fact of it made Jack's actions even more profound. That he helped Elian despite knowing that he'd killed another human being was telling of Jack's character. Well-meaning but painfully naive.  
  
"No. I didn't really believe them. Not until you told me, at least." Jack looked at Elian. "I managed to scare them away, and I was about to just leave and be done with them, but Glaise smelled your blood, and I spent the whole day looking for you." The brunet twiddled his thumbs. "I don't know why, but I felt like I just had to help. My father had just died earlier that day and I didn't want anyone else dying on my account."   
  
Elian glanced at the dog that had managed to bury itself in the space between Elian's thigh and the bed. So Glaise was the reason they'd been brought together... Elian rubbed the dog's belly affectionately. No matter how needlessly convoluted the situation was between Jack and Elian, the blond was at the very least grateful for the chance to find that not everything in the world they lived in was horrifyingly twisted. "You saved me..." Elian whispered.  
  
"I only did what my parents taught me to do with wounds and with the plants in the area..." Jack said with a measure of modesty. Sure, he'd saved Elian's life, but he'd not done anything special or heroic or worthy of such praise as being called a saviour. He'd only done what he'd always known to do, something he'd done throughout his entire life.  
  
Elian shook his head. "Not that. You saved me from the men who were chasing me..." He raised his eyes, glittering with sincerest gratitude to Jack's own tawny ones and the slightest genuine smile graced Elian's face.  
  
"I didn't mean to..." Jack shrugged. "I just wanted them off our--" he paused. He remembered. The farmland was now solely his being the lone inheritor of his parents' property. "--my land." A somber tone crept into his voice, one that did not escape Elian's notice. Jack was still struggling with his parents' deaths, he could tell. But that the brunet was able to set aside his grief to help Elian's recovery was far more profound now that the blond understood the situation than it had been before.  
  
"That doesn't change anything. You still saved me..." whispered Elian in the dark. There was something that Jack couldn't quite name in the blond's voice. A hint of admiration, perhaps? Awe? Gratitude was certainly there, but there were other subtle inflections that told of other emotions running through Elian. "Why did you watch me bathe?" The blond sputtered and looked away as he asked the question.  
  
"I don't know... I had spent the day looking for you and wanted to make sure you were okay..." Jack said. "I found you and you were bathing and you were so beautiful" Jack stopped, sputtering when he realized what he'd just said. "I-I-I-I mean, t-the sight was so m-mesmerizing a-and I was c-curious!" Jack blushed and looked at his twiddling thumbs. "At first I was afraid... but then I saw what you were doing and... and..."  
  
Jack's words had stunned Elian to silence, but even the quiet couldn't stop the warmth that began to creep into his already-hot cheeks. He'd only ever been called beautiful in such a sincere and innocent manner once before, and even then, that person had died because of Elian. There was a flutter in the blond's heart that he'd never thought he would feel again, a surging of warmth and affection in his blood that he'd thought had long since grown immune to such emotions.  
  
"For once in my life I wasn't scared even if I had no idea who or what you were or what you were doing in this place. I was just amazed." Jack slowly raised his eyes to meet Elian's. "I was enchanted..." A tense silence hung between them, and it wasn't for hostility, rather, it was for neither man knowing how exactly to react to what had just been said.   
  
"You... Your ice is beautiful, Elian. I don't think it's a curse." Jack whispered in the night, feeling his heart thunder and race in his chest.  
  
\---  
  
Rein was unceremoniously woken by the feeling of Tristan's cock popping out of his hole and the angry exclamation of the brunet "What the fuck?!" The bed, and the redhead sprawled on it, shook as the brunet scrambled to get out of the compromising situation he'd found himself in. Tristan got one good long look at Rein and saw his cum leaking out of the redhead's well-used hole. He was definitely going to burn in hell now. He raised his hands to his temples, staring down at his cock in disbelief. The traitorous organ was still painfully hard, and was demanding him to fuck the redhead another time.  
  
Rein turned over and lay on his back, stretching his body and hearing the joints pop as he finally got some measure of freedom from the pose he'd been forced into by Tristan's weight. "Tristan..." he said slowly, pleadingly. His eyes rose and saw disgust, anger, loathing, and hurt in Tristan's eyes. Perhaps the most painful expression that those tawny eyes held was that of betrayal. It felt like a dagger in Rein's chest.  
  
The brunet walked over to the bed and grabbed his jaw. "Why the fuck did you do this?!" Tristan looked into Rein's eyes and saw no regret there, only an explanation for what he'd always seen in them but never truly understood. There was dogged affection in those eyes, repressed, yes, but nonetheless present. He shuddered in revulsion and, in one small part of himself, guilt. He shoved the redhead away from himself. The other man rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a loud thump.  
  
Rein propped himself up on his elbows and regarded Tristan with a smoldering glare. "I have been in love with you since we were young, Tristan." He said, voice spiteful but trembling with genuine pleading. The brunet averted his gaze, not wanting to gaze on what he believed was the shell of a man that had once been his friend. "It could have been us" Rein said, eyes brimming with tears. "But you married that bitch."  
  
"It never could've been us!" snapped Tristan. He never thought of other men in that way. Never thought of Rein in that way. The thought and desire plainly never crossed his consciousness. Despite his stubborn self-affirmation of his heterosexuality, his cock twitched in desire when memories of the previous night drifted up from the haze that the alcohol had left behind. "What would my daughter think? Liana looked up to you!" said Tristan through gritted teeth. "She admired you! You... you faggot!" screamed Tristan, fists balled at his sides.  
  
"She knew, Tristan. I always told her about the adventures we had as impressionable teenagers." Tristan's ragged breathing and flaring nostrils calmed for a moment at Rein's words. "She asked if I was in love with you, and wouldn't believe it when I said I wasn't. So I told her. And I begged her to not tell you, or anyone, because I didn't want to die."   
  
Rein choked up as he remembered the terror he'd felt when Liana had torn the secret from him, and the utter relief that he had felt when he heard her response. "She told me that it didn't matter to her. That she didn't see why love should only be between a man and a woman. I still don't understand how that bitch could have had her, the sweetest little girl in the world." A moment of silence fell between the two. "Why can't you love me, Tristan?"  
  
"Because. I. Am.  _NOT_. A fag!" Tristan's voice boomed, making the room shake with its magnitude. Rein cowered from Tristan who loomed over him. "Get dressed. We're leaving." The brunet turned his back to the redhead and picked up his breeches where they'd been cast aside. "This won't ever happen again,  _understood?_  That was disgusting."  
  
Anger surged through Rein's body. "Are you so blind?" he yelled. "Did that bitch really close your mind so much?!" He glared at Tristan's back. The brunet did not acknowledge him "Fine. So be it. But don't you fucking tell me it was disgusting. This--" The redhead stuck his finger obscenely into his asshole, and it came away with a strand of Tristan's cum.   
  
"--tells me that you enjoyed it! And don't you fucking deny it to my face! I gave you more pleasure than she ever did! I gave you my heart when she dangled hers in front of you, letting you so, so close, but never letting it be yours." Rein shook, tears falling freely from his eyes. Why couldn't he and Tristan have been as they were before the incident? Best friends? Maybe even lovers? Why not? Why not? It was unfair.  
  
The last thing Rein saw was Tristan walking past him to pick up his shirt that was lying behind the redhead. Rein opened his mouth to speak again before he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and his entire world went black.  
  
*  
  
When Rein came to, he was still naked, but he was no longer on the floor. His mouth felt dry, and stuffed. He lifted his head and tried to move, but to no avail. His arms and his feet were bound. His wrists in particular were bound together by a length of rope and tied to one of the bedposts. His feet were in a similar predicament, spread almost obscenely to show the cum that he could feel was still slowly dripping out of his hole. Tristan was pulling on his tunic nearby.  
  
"Tristan!" Rein tried to yell, but the stuffing he'd felt in his mouth turned out to be his tunic, wrapped around his head and tied into a gag. Drool dripped out of the sides of the redhead's mouth. "Tristan!" His protestations were muffled. He squirmed and writhed on the bed, trying to free himself from his restraints. It was to no avail. Tristan had trussed him up tightly. "Tristan!!" he begged, tears streaming freely from the corners of his eyes.  
  
The brunet just turned to face him and leveled an irate glare at him. Even the anger faded quickly, replaced by a stony, emotionless mask. Tristan was holding in his hands the bundle of Rein's remaining clothes. He raised them, making sure that the redhead's eyes were on them, and threw the bundle into the crackling flames in the hearth. There were no words said. Tristan unbolted the door and left Rein to struggle against his bonds. The last thing the redhead would ever see of the man he'd loved for so many years would be the sight of his retreating back.  
  
*  
  
Tristan had sent his two other companions ahead with some coin to buy horses. When they were alone at the counter, Iven turned to the brunet. "Where's the other one?" Maybe Tristan's two companions had heard nothing the previous night, but Iven and his wife lived right next door to Tristan's room. He'd heard everything that had happened. It had kept them up, disturbed and disgusted by what had gone on.  
  
"Tied up." Tristan said flatly. "I didn't know he was a fucking fag." Iven shuddered at the thought. He could only think about what torture awaited the poor boy in hell. The redhead had been a decent lad, far as he could tell. He almost felt bad about what was going to happen to him. "We'll be back. We'll take care of him."   
  
Fat chance Iven was going to allow that. The sun priests, after all, offered a good reward, not only in this life but also in the next, for any and all that would turn in one of the abominations. Iven had little chance to overpower the gruff Tristan, but he could take advantage of the redhead.  
  
As much as the raven-haired man kept convincing himself that he was free of sin, he'd enjoyed the previous night every bit as much as the redhead had, judging by the noises they were making. Tristan was stained. "Of course" said Iven, dismissing Tristan with a wave.  
  
A tiny part of Tristan screamed in terror. What was he doing, leaving his childhood friend alone and without clothes in a strange village with priests? That voice told him to go back and free Rein and deal with the redhead on his own terms. The less-understanding part of Tristan screamed with rage at being taken advantage of.  _"Let the fag be uncomfortable. We'll deal with him later"_  said the much louder voice in his head. Unfortunately, at least for Rein, Tristan heeded the louder voice.  
  
Tristan left the tavern, pushing any thoughts about the redhead aside, and joined the two other men. They had horses waiting for him. "Alright. Let's get this over with." They rode out of the village into the forest. Tristan could still feel Rein's pleading, accusing eyes boring into his back. He took a deep breath. The redhead could wait.  
  
As they trotted along, Tristan spotted something hanging from a nearby branch. It was a pale yellow flower. He recognized it. Tristan glanced once back at the retreating village, remorse plaguing his conscience. Quickly, he tore the flower off the stem and pocketed it, making great care not to show his men what he'd done.  
  
Maybe it could come in use later on.  
  
\---  
  
Elian didn't know what to say. The only people that had ever told him that his powers were beautiful as well were the children of lady Elesyne and the lady herself. They possessed the same powers, and all of this was before all the death and destruction that Elian had wrought. His mouth worked wordlessly for good long while, trying to form something, anything, to tell Jack. Nothing was forthcoming.  
  
The light of the moon was waning, being replaced by the gray of the dawn. "But I almost killed you..." whispered Elian, still not quite believing what Jack had said so far.  
  
"But you also helped me" Jack whispered back. He reached over to Elian. The blond shrank away from the touch. The brunet persevered and brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over the blond's face. He'd become quite fond of the gesture. "Just because something brings death, doesn't mean it's evil, or monstrous, or a curse." He pulled his hand back and Elian raised his eyes to meet Jack's. "You  _are_  winter. But winter doesn't only bring death. It wipes the slate clean. Allows spring to sow new life..."  
  
Jack breathed in deeply. "My father Kyle also thought he was a monster." Elian's eyes widened and he stared earnestly into Jack's, his ears open and listening. "They never thought I could hear them when they talked at night... but the walls of the farmhouse aren't very thick." Jack's eyes were shining with tears. He sighed. "I don't know the reason why he did, they never said, but my other father Nyko would always assure him that he was beautiful."  
  
"Do you remember when I asked you the question about the wolf and the deer?" Elian nodded his head. "Nyko asked the same question of Kyle. He also always said something else. 'Fire can destroy anything and everything it touches...' he would tell Kyle as they probably lay together at night. 'so why do we keep it in our homes? To light them and to warm them? Fire is death, but fire is also life. How else would we survive the winter?' he would continue. 'Even the most beautiful roses have thorns, but that doesn't make them monsters.'"  
  
Elian could not deny the truth of Jack's words, yet he still could not bring himself to say anything. His heart understood, and his heart acknowledged the truth, but his conscience would not allow any of it. He'd killed. He was a monster. That was the end of that. "And if you  _are_  a monster, you're the most beautiful monster I've ever seen." Jack said, almost too softly for Elian to hear.  
  
The blond was not sure how much more red his cheeks could get considering that it seemed like all the blood in his body had already flowed to them, but he blushed even more all the same. "Thanks" he whispered to Jack, sincere appreciation in his voice.   
  
The brunet's eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth. "I-I-I-I-I d-didn't m-mean to t-think out l-loud!" he stammered in protest. Elian smiled and giggled, making Jack's face turn even redder.   
  
When the humour of the situation died, so did its voice. Silence descended upon the two yet again. Elian was the first to break the silence this time, sincere curiosity winning over the apprehension he felt talking to Jack. "Why do you live out here, all alone?"  
  
"I've always lived out here. My parents were living here when they found me." As though for emphasis, Jack allowed his gaze to wander about the room. His fathers had built a home. Sure, it was far away from most civilization. Sure, it was incredibly risky, and there were some years where they just barely scraped by. It was a home all the same, built by love and hard work.   
  
"They found you?" Jack nodded. He knew absolutely nothing of his birth parents, why they'd left him, who they were, or even what they were. He knew nothing of where he came from, what circumstances had led to his abandonment.  
  
"Yeah, they found me, by the woods, during one of the first snows. Why?" The brunet stared into the distance. Perhaps when Elian's feet were in better condition, he could take the blond to where he'd been found, or at least where his parents believed he'd been found. It was one late summer's afternoon, after they'd harvested the crop, that they decided to look for the place that they'd found the baby Jack on that fateful day.  
  
It had taken his fathers an entire day, and a lot of back-and-forth bickering between the two, before they were finally able to come to an agreement about where they'd found the little boy. They carved a circle with three horns into the tree, the symbol of the old gods. Ever since that day, at the end of every summer harvest, Jack would return to that tree and deepen the carving, making sure that the tree would never grow over it, and erase it from memory.  
  
"I thought maybe one of them was your real father..." The theory was a long shot, Elian admitted. However, it wasn't entirely out of the question that perhaps one of Jack's fathers had a wife, and when he discovered his true proclivities, was abandoned by his spouse and ran away with his child.   
  
Jack shook his head. Oh if only such was the case. At the very least, he would have known his birth-parents, and why he did not have a mother. Alas, the past had not entirely worked out to be that way for him. "I never knew my real parents. I was too young to remember when my fathers found me."  
  
Elian couldn't imagine not knowing his birth parents. Sure, his father had been brutal, ruthless, showing little affection or love for him, but his mother had been loving -- for the early years of his life at least. "Did your fathers know?" Elian could not fathom the loneliness and inadequacy that Jack must have felt as a child, having no idea why he was abandoned, and by whom.  
  
"They had no idea. They thought I was a gift from the gods." Jack said sadly. He still had an innermost desire to come to know his birth-parents, but even that flame was slowly dying. He was, by his fathers' reckoning at least, probably about twenty years of age. If his birth-parents had abandoned him because they were poor, they probably had not survived the years. "My fathers lived out here because they were chased out of the village that they lived in before..."  
  
Elian nodded in understanding. He probably knew the feeling more than most. After all, he'd been through the same thing numerous times in the past years. Jack ran his fingers through his hair. "I think you should get some more sleep. It would... help you heal faster..." he said blurted out in the awkward silence that followed his explanation of why his fathers lived in isolation. "I-I'll... go."  
  
Jack made to move off of the bed, uncrossing his legs and swinging them over the side. He felt a cool hand grip his arm. "Jack." He turned to face Elian. The blond was trying to avoid his eyes. "...Don't leave me?"  
  
The spiteful part of Jack wanted to tell the blond, in the most mocking voice possible "I can't," but the part of Jack that desperately wanted Elian to stay forced him back down on the bed. "Alright..." he said and lay down beside Elian. As the light of dawn gave way to the first rays of sunshine, Jack and Elian fell asleep. Both were tired, and scared, and vulnerable. However, for the moment at least, they deserved the rest.  
  
\---  
  
Tristan dismounted from his horse and hailed the farmer that strode out of his farmhouse. It was still early in the morning, but he and his men needed to get on the move quickly. The other man walked up to him and tipped his wide-brimmed hat to Tristan. "You come from the village?" Tristan nodded. "What're you folks doing out here? There's really nothing more this way between here and the sea."  
  
"We're after someone" Tristan said grimly.  
  
The farmer raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"  
  
"A murderer." The farmer narrowed his eyes. "Have you seen a kid with blond hair and blue eyes about this--" Tristan raised his hand to about his shoulder-height "tall?" The farmer shook his head, no. "Would you know anyone who might?"  
  
"Next farm's about half a day's walk east. You should ask the folks there." Tristan nodded and shook hands with the farmer, tossing him a bronze nut in payment. The horses had cost the three, and Rein, almost all their money and there was no hope in hell that they could pay for food and lodgings at the farms they were bound to visit as they hunted for the winterchild. The farmer looked at the bronze nut in his hands and chuckled. "Hard times, these, eh?"  
  
"Aren't they always?" Tristan swung back up onto his horse and tapped the spurs of the riding boots that had come with the horses against his beast's flank. He waved to the farmer who was walking back to his farmhouse as they trotted away. The farmer waved back. At least most of the people they'd encountered so far were pleasant. Some of them had actually even wished the small group well as soon as they heard about their goal to hunt down a murderer.  
  
If the fact that the next farm was half a day's walk away was any indication, they had managed to find themselves on the edge of the wilderness. People would now be few and far in between. Tristan found himself hoping that they find the winterchild soon so that he could go back and straighten out Rein himself. He'd almost immediately been seized by apprehension when they arrived at the first farm. He felt as though he'd made the worst possible choice for the man that had once been his childhood friend.  
  
Remorseful as he might have been, it was far too late to turn back.  
  
\---  
  
Rein had been struggling with the ropes for well over half an hour when he heard footsteps outside the door. Some part of him hoped that it would be Tristan, coming back with a changed heart and mind, but the sinking feeling in his heart told him otherwise. His wrists and his ankles were red, chafed, and painful. The rough rope had already bitten well into his skin. Rein felt naked, exposed. He was both of those things, but he felt his vulnerability in more than just his flesh.  
  
He cursed, as much as he could with the gag in his mouth, at least. Some cum was still dripping from his hole. Just how much seed had Tristan built up in his nuts, Rein was not sure, but there was definitely a lot buried in his ass. The door swung open slowly, ominously, and revealed a man dressed in a white silken tunic with matching breeches and a coat of gold embroidered with fiery colours. The coat was open, with not a button in sight. The two sides were held together by a golden chain fastened to the gilded likeness of three suns in a triangle. A sun priest. Behind him were two hulking slabs of man and Iven.  
  
Rein's eyes darted to the fireplace where the remains of his clothes were smoldering.  _"Why, Tristan, why?"_  he lamented in his mind as he struggled with renewed vigour. There was nothing good about to come to him. He was certainly going to either not leave what he'd managed to find himself in at all, or leave it horribly disfigured. He pulled against his bonds and tried to clench his cheeks together to hide any evidence of Tristan's seed running down his crack.  
  
It was to no avail. The priest walked up to him and pulled his ass cheeks apart, exposing his clenched rosebud. The priest grinned lecherously at Rein and began to massage the sensitive area. The redhead groaned into the gag and was unable to stop his hole from un-clenching and allowing a trickle of cum out. "This one's been bred." The priest turned to Iven. The portly landlord of the tavern nodded. "Take it away." The two men grabbed him by the hands and the feet before cutting away the ropes.  
  
Rein struggled and screamed in protest, but the iron vice-like grip of the hulking men was far too strong and before long, he was yelling in pain.  
  
\---  
  
Jack stretched. Morning light was filtering in through the shutters. He stifled a yawn as he sat up, arms outstretched to either side. He spread his legs and folded his hands in the space between them. He shook his head. Glaise had somehow managed to wedge himself in between the two young men. With the lack of Jack's body, Glaise snuggled deeper into Elian's side. The brunet couldn't help the smile that graced his face.  
  
The two, dog and blond, radiated an inexplicable aura of innocence. Jack knew that Elian was anything  _but_  innocent and he was certain that the blond had only told him the tiniest fraction of his story. Perhaps it was the fact that he believed himself to be a monster that made him seem innocent. Perhaps it was the fact that Elian felt such crippling guilt about everything he did. Perhaps it was the almost-angelic expression on his face, his mouth slightly agape, his arm over his head, and his blond hair splayed around his face on the pillow. Whatever it was, there was definitely a significant lack of the monstrous qualities that Elian believed he possessed.  
  
Jack reached over to Elian and hesitated for a moment. Was it wrong of him to show such affection? He was beginning to feel as though Elian would never consent to stay with him, not with the how he thought of himself, of the danger he thought he posed to Jack. Perhaps the brunet should stay away, not let himself get attached any further, but he knew that it would almost be impossible to do such a thing. He allowed his hand to brush away the lock of hair that had fallen over Elian's face. The blond smiled, and Glaise placed one of his forepaws over the Elian's chest.  
  
Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. He was going to make breakfast, or at least find some. The brunet made his way down the stairs as quietly as he could. He didn't want to wake Elian and Glaise. There was no more bread in the entire household, so a breakfast of bread and salted meat was not possible. Jack decided he would go and find some eggs. Leaving the farmhouse, he walked to the chicken coop to retrieve some from the hens.  
  
\---  
  
Rein struggled all the way down the stairs with his captors, but it was all for naught. The burly men had grips of iron and no matter how Rein squirmed, he could not free himself from their grasp. The sun priest glanced at him lecherously, sinisterly from time to time. The redhead, at least for the first few seconds of being unceremoniously grabbed from the bed, glared at him and bared his teeth through the gag. Now, at the bottom of the tavern's staircase, the redhead simply averted his gaze, cheeks colouring in shame.  
  
The sun priest had, to make an example of the redhead, ordered the men carrying him to do so in such a manner that his legs would be spread wide apart and his well-used hole would be visible for the world to see -- puffed up, still leaking every now and again, and caked in dried cum. Iven only shook his head sadly at the redhead when Rein looked at him with pleading eyes. With Tristan and his companions gone, there was no chance for help coming to the redhead.  
  
The small group reached the threshold of the tavern. They stopped. The sun priest turned to Iven. In a voice younger than Rein had expected, the richly-garbed man said to the master of the tavern "Many thanks for your efforts to ensure the virtue of this village." The priest produced an emblem of the sun from within his cloak. "Should your time on this earth come to pass, merely ask that this token be placed on your tongue and you shall make haste to paradise."   
  
Iven smiled at the priest. As long as he kept the damnable thing, he would be ensured a spot at the table of the gods. Though, Iven supposed he would have to be more careful from that day forth. The townspeople would know he had the emblem. He could not let them take it from him, otherwise his seat would be taken by another. "And for your services in this mortal world, take this." The priest dropped a couple dozen golden marks onto Iven's hand. The tavern master had gone from average townsperson to richer than his rags in but two days. He could not help but smile and close his hands greedily over the money. "Again, many thanks. We shall see that this...  _abomination_  is dealt with."  
  
Rein had never felt more ashamed his entire life. He was shackled, effectively, by the ropes around his ankles and his wrists. He was slung in between two men like a large game animal. He had been sold for eternal happiness and a few gold marks. He felt as though he was less than a man, a mere deviant animal that the sun priest was duty-bound to punish. The fact that the well-dressed man had never once referred to him by 'he' or 'his' sent his heart spiralling further into the darkness of despair.  
  
Rein was paraded along the dirt-packed streets of the village, legs open like the whore he felt he was. He did not regret doing what he had to Tristan, he had waited years for the chance, but he feared what was to come. He despised that the sun-priest could make him feel so much like an object, no more than a spectacle to behold and punish as he pleased. Men, women and children stopped and stared at him as he passed by. The priest took his precious time to get to the church, too. The men shook their heads, the women tsked in dismay, and the children chanted profanities at Rein and his ass. "Faggot! Cockgobbler! Assfucker!" they cried after him.  
  
Rein felt fire on his cheeks. He felt every single shred of his dignity, of his manhood being stripped away with every step that the two burly men carrying him took.  
  
The redhead wept openly, far too terrified of the fate that was awaiting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That's that for this week's chapter. I hope you enjoyed the read!
> 
> Thanks for all the support for the story so far, it's really helpful, and a great motivator. Please, comment so I can properly thank you if you follow this story!
> 
> Anyway, this week I'd like to know what you think of Elian's crippling self-doubt... and what Tristan had the gall to do to Rein. Was it justified? I don't think so, but I'd like to know what you think!
> 
> So yeah, there's that! If you have any questions related to the story or my works in general, just hit me up on [tumblr!](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)
> 
> Here's a preview of next week's action:
> 
>  
> 
> _"What's wrong?" asked Jack through a mouthfull of egg and meat._
> 
> _"I-what did you do to your eggs?"_
> 
> _Jack raised an eyebrow. "I peeled them?"_
> 
> _Elian blushed. "How?"_
> 
> _"Have you never eaten boiled eggs?"_
> 
> _The blond shook his head. "Only raw or fried or already peeled... Hens were quite rare in the places I visited..." The pink on his cheeks deepened and he looked away abashedly._
> 
> P.S. If you have the time, please, check out my original work on AO3: [Dwindling Glory - Never Regret](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1168168/chapters/2376231)


	8. The Cage

Elian stretched his arms and his legs, forgetting for a moment that his feet were not yet entirely healed. He bit back a curse when a bolt of pain shot up his calves. His sudden movement woke up the dog that had been sleeping beside him, and Glaise cracked open an eye before blearily licking Elian's jaw and cheeks, to which the blond responded by giving the bundle of fur a scratch behind the ear.   
  
Elian propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but there was a delightful aroma drifting up the stairs. Perhaps the brunet was preparing something to eat. The rest of the room was chaos, the unruly aftermath of the tempest that Elian's nightmare had called into existence. The smooth, shiny stones that had been in a perfectly straight line on top of the dresser were now crooked. Candles were toppled over. There was parchment stuck to random crevices in the wall. Elian shook his head; he would hate having to make Jack clean up the mess.  
  
The blond lowered his gaze to his lap. He was convinced that Glaise had found his lap to be such a comfortable place to stretch that he'd claimed it as his territory. The dog was at present on his back, lying on Elian's thighs, wagging his tail and yipping intermittently at the blond. Absentmindedly, the blond reached down and scratched the dog's belly. It wasn't long before Elian heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Moments later Jack appeared at the door, bearing a tray of food and a sizeable square of meat for Glaise.  
  
In the blink of an eye, the dog was on all fours barking happily at Jack. The brunet grinned, flashing a smile that Elian was sure he would never quite forget. Rows of perfectly-tended teeth almost glimmered in the bright morning light filtering in through the windows. There was a genuine happiness in Jack's expression that Elian found precious. It was something that deep inside, Elian inexplicably wanted to protect with his life...  
  
Elian considered it odd that Jack had somehow managed to keep all his teeth in such good shape. Work at a farm was difficult, after all, and most farmlads tended not to pay too much attention to their hygiene. At the very least they did not, in Elian's experience. Jack was different. The boy, though admittedly still a lot more grimy than the people that lived at the palace Elian had grown up in, was far cleaner than most.  
  
Elian was pretty sure that prior to his bath, Jack was probably in much better condition than he was. "Glaise." said the brunet. The dog arched its back and raised its hindquarters in preparation to pounce. "Off the bed with you." The brunet tossed the meat off to the side. With surprising agility, the dog bounded off the bed and caught it in his jaws before settling down and tearing into the meal.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Jack asked, a smile on his face as he set down the tray on the nightstand beside Elian. The day was nice and the brunet was in an inexplicably happy mood. Jack rose and threw open another window, allowing more sunlight to come flooding into the room. The bright light definitely cast the disarray in a clearer light, and Elian was made aware of just how much damage had been done. Jack's eyes went wide as he surveyed the room, and a shadow of sadness descended upon them before vanishing mere moments later.  
  
"Much better..." said Elian, squinting in the light. "Thank you" he said sincerely. His feet were beginning to throb again, though not nearly as bad as they had been before Jack had found him. There was no trace of the fever in his body, and he was at the very least, far more rested than he had been in months. Jack had come into his life and given him a much needed momentary reprieve and a far more vital assurance that not everything in the world was as twisted as it seemed.  
  
"It was nothing..." said Jack, colour rising in his cheeks. "I did what I could to save you." The brunet reached over to the tray and handed Elian a plate with four strips of dried, salted meat and two boiled eggs. "Here. I found breakfast" said Jack, grinning sheepishly. "It's not the best, but the vegetables haven't been in the ground for very long."  
  
Elian stared at the eggs, perplexed, as he ripped off a piece of the meat and popped it into his mouth. It was fairly salty, though that was to be expected, and tough and chewy. Elian quite liked it. The blond tapped the eggs. The shells were still on, and he was unsure what to do about the eggs. Normally he ate eggs raw, but these ones sounded solid. "What's wrong?" asked Jack through a mouthfull of egg and meat.  
  
"I-what did you do to your eggs?" asked Elian, seeing bits and pieces of eggshell in a little pile on Jack's plate. His eyes were wide with surprise and wonder and more than a little confusion.  
  
Jack raised a suspicious eyebrow at Elian. The blond couldn't possibly be saying what he was saying. "I peeled them?"  
  
Elian blushed, looking down at his food with a burning face before looking back at Jack and asking, "How?"  
  
"Have you never eaten boiled eggs?" asked Jack, almost as confused as Elian was. He'd never heard of someone having not eaten boiled eggs before, or at least, never eaten them with the shells intact.   
  
The blond shook his head. "Only raw or fried or already peeled... Hens were quite rare where I've been... and people not as generous" The pink on his cheeks deepened and he looked away abashedly.   
  
Jack laughed. Again, he wondered how such an innocent-seeming creature could ever be considered a monster save by himself. "Alright. This is what you do." Jack took one of Elian's eggs and tapped it firmly on the edge of his plate until it cracked. Once that was done, Jack just pulled off pieces of the shell, much to Elian's amazement. "Here--" Jack sprinkled a tiny pinch of salt onto the egg. Salt, on the farm at least, was difficult to come by and was better used to preserve meat. However, as Jack had discovered, a tiny amount made eggs taste heavenly. "--try that."  
  
Elian hesitantly bit into the egg with the salt. "Aaand, open your mouth." Elian raised an eyebrow but did as Jack asked. The brunet raised a piece of salted meat. Elian twitched two times as Jack's hand approached his face, but he kept his composure. He bit down on the meat and chewed. The blond's eyes widened in surprise at the flavours and melding of textures that assaulted his tongue. It was the best thing he'd put in his tongue in a while. Granted, any real food would've been just as good. After all, he had just the previous day been picking out and eating maggots from Jack's odd fur cloak.  
  
"This is good..." said Elian through a mouthful of the simple meal. "Thank you" he said, gratitude sincere and palpable in his voice. Jack beamed at him and they finished the meal in silence. With the brazen light of the morn, neither Jack or Elian seemed to be willing to breach the darker things that they'd talked about before. Those things could wait. For now, it was a time to just... slow down. Elian knew that he would have to leave as soon as he was better, but his feet weren't fully healed yet, and until the time that he could properly walk again, there would be very little that either he or Jack could do about anything.  
  
There was no indication that the men that had been pursuing him had found him yet. If anything, they were probably as lost as he was. Village-folk very rarely left their small coves of civilization. The world was a harsh place, and not just inside towns. Bandits wandered the high-roads and beasts prowled the forests. Despite the fact that people like Elian -- and in fact, even people who are accused to be like the blond and Jack -- were often chased away, the small communities that had popped up here and there provided small enclaves of safety against the merciless wilderness. For the time being, at least, Elian was safe, and he didn't think he wanted to spend this little island of stability in his life with anyone else than Jack.  
  
After the two washed down their meals with cool water, Glaise bounded out of the room and down the stairs, probably to get a drink of his own. Jack had been unable to bring up the dog's bowl, what with the tray he'd been carrying. Jack glanced at Elian and gestured at his feet. "May I?" Elian nodded hesitantly. He wasn't sure he wanted Jack anywhere near his feet. Sure, the brunet had helped make sure they were clean and on the way to healing, but they were throbbing with slight pain. Elian didn't think he wanted to know what state his feet were in too.  
  
Jack gently untied the bandage on his Elian's left foot and unwound the cloth slowly. There was very little blood on the cloth and no pus. It was a good indication. The brunet peeled off the leaf that obstructed his vision of the sole of Elian's foot. Much of the paste was still caked onto the skin, but Jack could clearly see in areas where the wounds were still puffy and red. Only the smallest ones had closed up. Most of the blisters had shrunk, but as far as he could tell, there was no other progress. Jack repeated the same for Elian's other foot and saw the same thing. "How do they look, Jack?"  
  
"Cut up," he said, grinning despite himself at the joke. Elian himself smiled at the jest, it was high time for some levity. The day  _was_  beautiful after all. "It definitely looks better, though." Jack said, glad that the paste had done its job as expected. Jack knew that the paste should not stay on for a long time, though, as it turned grainy and sharp when it dried. The salve looked to be good for a few more hours, but Jack was not going to risk it. "I'll be back."  
  
Jack ran down the stairs, almost tripping over Glaise who was running back up. He shook his head at the dog. "What did I tell you about the stairs, Glaise?" he yelled back once he reached the bottom of the stairs. He heard a whine and a bark in reply, and, if he was not mistaken, a giggle from Elian. Jack took the pail he'd been heating over the fire, hissing at the heat of the handle. He grabbed a scrap piece of wool nearby and carried the pail up the stairs to the room. Jack shot a glance at Elian who was gingerly holding his feet over the bed while simultaneously being attacked by Glaise. "Glaise. Behave." The dog whined and stopped, laying its head on Elian's stomach.  
  
Jack ran back down the stairs and grabbed the wooden washing tub that that they used for their clothes. He took it outside to the well and removed the well's rough-hewn wooden cover. Jack washed the tub out. If there was any soap left in it, Elian was bound to be in for a world of hurt. Once the brunet was satisfied enough that there were no longer any dredges of soap remaining in the tub, he replaced the wellcover and walked back to the house and up the stairs to the room. He was lugging the large and moderately heavy tub along all the while.  
  
When Jack entered the room, Glaise was lying on his back on Elian's stomach, tail wagging madly as Elian rubbed the dog's belly. Jack smiled. The sight was quite adorable. "Alright, Glaise. Get off of Elian." The dog yipped and did as he was bid, albeit, evidently grudgingly. Jack lowered the wooden tub onto the floor by the side of the bed and walked over to where he'd left the pail. The water inside was still warm, but not too hot. Jack poured all of it into the tub, careful not to splash too much around.  
  
Jack crouched and motioned at Elian to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The blond complied. Gently, the brunet lowered Elian's feet into the warm water. The blond hissed when the water touched his feet. It stung for a moment, but the pain passed relatively quickly. Elian watched, intrigued, as the paste on his feet slowly dissolved into a pale green cloud in the water. "Oh. That feels... odd." remarked Elian as he felt the partly-dried wedges of the paste dislodge from the crevices of his wounds.  
  
Jack smiled at Elian. "It shouldn't take much more than a few more hours until you can walk again, not very far, of course, and not without shoes." The blond blushed. Not having shoes, or at least not having good ones, was the primary cause of all his current troubles to begin with anyway. He didn't have any, so he supposed that Jack meant that he would be staying in bed for a few more days. "You can have one of my fathers' pairs of shoes if they fit you."  
  
"But Ja--" The brunet raised a finger to stifle Elian's protestation. Of course the blond wanted to take Jack up on the offer, but from the way Jack talked of them, with a loving lilt to his voice, Elian could tell that Jack's parents were important to him. He wasn't sure he felt entirely comfortable with taking one of the few mementos Jack would have of the men that had found him, taken him in, and raised him as their own.  
  
"It's alright." Jack reassured Elian. In truth he wasn't comfortable with giving away his fathers' shoes, but he knew that they didn't fit him, and that he would probably never have any use for them. He guessed it would be much better for his fathers' memories that their shoes be used by someone who actually needed them. It was a far nobler cause than just gathering mold and dust around the farmhouse. The brunet straightened and grabbed the pail. "I'll be back in about half an hour. Keep your feet in the water. I'll make some more of the salve."  
  
"Okay." Elian was a bit apprehensive about being left all alone in the farmhouse with nary a thing to protect himself with. Granted, Glaise was with him, but he had no illusions that the dog could protect him against four armed men if by some stroke of luck they managed to track him down to Jack's farmstead. Jack gave him a small smile as he left the room. Elian couldn't help but smile back despite himself and the worry that was trying to overcome his mental barriers.  
  
\---  
  
Rein pissed himself in fear when they approached the looming stone face of the sun priests' secretive cloister. The pungent stream of yellow liquid had rushed forth from his soft, numb cock onto his belly before dripping to the ground as soon as he saw the heavyset wooden doors of the building. A sinister smile had crossed the priest's face at that moment and he gestured to the two burly men. Without a single word spoken, they tilted him so that his ass was higher in the air than his head, and his piss trickled up his chest and neck, some of it making its way to his face. "Such perversion." said the priest when Rein had emptied his bladder.  
  
The doors swung open with a dull boom. Rein had not known what to expect of the convent. After all, their little village did not have one. The sun priests all lived in their tiny church and were not nearly as powerful there as they seemed to be in this much larger village. His mind's eye had constructed an image of a dungeon filled with all sorts of torturous implements designed to tear apart and break people like himself, barring that, he imagined the place to be dull and lacking of furniture.   
  
Neither of those sights greeted him as he was carried through the threshold of the stone building, limp, having long since resigned himself to his fate. The inside of the foreboding stone walls was well-lit, and richly furnished with carpet and tapestries. He'd not expected such luxury in a village. However, judging from the significant sum of money that had been given to Iven as a reward, and the rich clothing that the sun priests were apt to wear, he should not have been surprised.  
  
He was carried within, and not a single soul was in sight until the doors slammed shut behind him. As soon as the place was again shrouded in secrecy, other creatures appeared in the halls. There were men, dressed much like the sun priest that accompanied him, who seemed to have shed the stern disapproving countenance that he had in exchange for a more pleasant and disturbingly sympathetic one. Rein looked at him in confusion. The sun priest smiled. Genially.  _Genially!_  He had the gall to parade the redhead through the town, showing his most private, secret parts and his shame to every single townsperson, and now he was smiling like a friend at him? Rein was incensed and completely baffled.  
  
"Here, within these halls, we are but men." said the priest, as though that was supposed to explain everything. "Out there, under the grace of the gods, in the eye of day, we are their avatars, sworn to uphold their commandments lest we be thrown into eternal torment." Rein was still confused. "Here, within these walls, where the light of the sun holds no power, we are free to be."  
  
Rein shook his head slowly, refusing to believe what the priest was saying. The motion sent droplets of drool spilling every which way. "Suit yourself to whatever you believe, so long as it is not the way of the old gods." The priest beckoned the two men carrying Rein to follow, and they crossed the halls. There was nary a window in sight, but the light that flooded the place was almost like daylight, not the flickering oranges and reds of braziers and torches. The redhead cast his gaze about. Orbs of arcane light danced on the ceiling above him, showering him with glittering motes of pure light. It seemed almost whimsical, if not for the knot of dread that had settled in the redhead's stomach.  
  
The two burly men and the priest descended a long spiral staircase. Rein could not comprehend the depth to which the unassuming -- on the outside, at least -- convent, sprawled under the earth above. After what seemed to be an eternity of just bare stone walls surrounding them, the staircase gave way to a hallway, from the end of which drifted what seemed to be a cool spring breeze. What manner of sorcery did this house of supposedly godly men contain?  
  
The small group emerged onto a ledge in an immense cavern. Far below them, the floor was carpeted with grass and a waterfall churned the surface of a nearby lake. A stream gurgled through the middle of the place glittering and bubbling happily as it flowed along. Large lights, almost sun-like in appearance, hugged the ceiling, dancing in a graceful yet seemingly entirely random pattern with each other and around the large stalactites that hung from the cave's roof. Flowers bloomed and trees swayed in the inexplicable breeze. Rein's eyes widened with wonder. The place was beautiful. Or at least, it seemed to be.  
  
It wasn't until they descended another flight of stone stairs to the floor of the cavern that Rein saw the twisted truth of the place. There were sun priests in their priestly garb walking or simply sitting, either deep in contemplation, conversing, or reading a book. It took a moment for Rein to see some of the men, thin, lean, or rotund, with neither tunics nor breeches, only undergarments, or, in the absence of such, a golden-tasseled belt of white silk. Their members dangled wherever they were, walking, sprinting, or lounging. All of them were branded across the chest with the symbol of the faith, the image of three suns in a triangular trifecta.  
  
Apart from these naked men, some of whom with physiques that made Rein green with envy, hard with desire, and drooling with lust and some that revolted him, there were others still. These others wore nothing, not the barest scrap of cloth nor protection from the elements and the ground beneath their bare feet save for one thing that stabbed terror through the heart of the redhead. They wore leather belts, but it was not the belts that disturbed Rein so profoundly; it was whatever the hell was attached to them that sent distress coursing through his veins.  
  
There were metal cages attached to the belts, that covered the crotch and hugged the curve of the body so as to seem as though the men had no manhoods. Were they eunuchs? Rein could not tell though some of them walked nearby. They all glanced at him with hooded eyes and fixed him with a strange look of sympathy and, oddly, gladness. The metal objects seemed to hide their manhoods, if they had any, so well that it almost looked like they were smooth in front. From each and every one of the cages dangled two locks, one in the front and one in the back, that clinked against the metal with every step, perhaps to remind the men -- Rein was not sure what to call them -- of their shame.  
  
The metal cages seemed to wrap around the back and up between the cheeks of the ass. It wasn't long before Rein was treated to a view of what it held there. The metal wrapped up, flared into what seemed to be a circle where the hole should have been, and up to rejoin the belt. As their small group was crossing the grass, Rein caught sight of one of the naked men without the metal part of his belt. His cock and balls were dangling freely, though his cock seemed shriveled, and his nuts swollen from disuse.   
  
A priest walked up to the man, holding the metal contraption. The man meekly got on all fours, with nary a sound of protestation. The priest took hold of his parts and squeezed them into the metal contraption. Where the metal flared into a circular base that he just knew would go over the asshole, a smooth curved 'hook' of a material that Rein could not determine from the distance protruded from the metal. The protrusion curved downwards, to the ground, the way the priest was holding it.   
  
Rein had a sneaking suspicion it was meant to touch that button inside a man that would reduce him to a gibbering mess under the ministrations of an experienced cock. The priest inserted it into the man's pucker and clasped the metal contraption to the belt. Rein could not take his eyes away as the man was locked away, the sound of the locks clicking shut and the low, rapturous groan of the man reaching his ears.   
  
The priest patted the man on the ass and, locked as he was, he rose, eyes rolling back into his head for a moment in pleasure. He rubbed at his crotch as though hoping for release, but the metal would not allow it. Rein was not sure, but he thought that he could see clear liquid dripping out of the bottom of the metal contraption.   
  
The man who'd been locked up walked away slowly, measuring his steps as though to avoid jostling around the object in his ass too much. Rein was terrified. Was that to be his fate? Effectively gelded, but constantly stimulated with no hope for release? He knew the feeling of being unable to satisfy his sexual hunger. He'd been in the situation with Tristan for so long. He did not want to experience it again, no matter the cost.  
  
\---  
  
"There we go. Good as new," quipped Jack, much to the chagrin of Elian who was wiping his watery eyes dry. The brunet had reapplied the paste to his feet and bound them in fresh clean strips of cloth. It wasn't as bad as the previous time that Jack had done so, but the experience was still far from comfortable. The fact that Jack treated the deed so lightly was not lost on Elian, and had he not been so changed by the hard years he'd lived through, he might have had the grace to pout in protestation.   
  
"Will you be okay here?" Jack asked sincerely. As much as he did not want to leave Elian all alone in the room -- and he had to, because Glaise was an important part of daily work on the farm -- Jack had to get back to the day-to-day routine of maintaining the farm, the field, and all the animals under his care. He'd given the animals pretty much the bare minimum of food the previous day when he rushed back to get supplies for Elian. He had to make sure they ate their fill today.  
  
Elian nodded, though he was understandably curious about what Jack did around the farm. Any further inquiry into the matter would have to wait 'til another day, though, as Jack still refused to allow Elian to walk even with shoes until most of the swelling and inflammation on his feet went down. Again, if Elian could bring himself to do it, he would have pouted. There was a part of Elian that just wanted to gain some sence of normalcy, even if it was just for a short period of time. That same part of Elian demanded that he do something productive, so that he would not be a burden on Jack.  
  
The brunet went out the door and whistled for Glaise to follow him. The dog whined and licked Elian's face, but Jack was adamant. He needed Glaise to herd some of the animals. The bundle of white fur walked slowly to Jack's side and whined at the brunet's playful rebuke before bounding down the stairs, tail wagging as fast as was possible. Jack shook his head and smiled at Elian as he vanished from sight.  
  
Elian reclined in the bed and twiddled his thumbs. This was bound to be a long day, what with nothing to do, no running to hurt his feet, no hiding to keep himself safe, no needless quiet to keep himself from being heard... Elian was so used to life on the run, he didn't quite know what to make of the sudden stability that had been thrust upon him. In quite an ironic sense, the stability that Jack had managed to lend him seemed to have caused some instability in his life.  
  
The blond shook his head, he should not be thinking such thoughts. After all, Jack had opened not only his home to the blond, but, it seemed, also his heart. In a way, Elian had done the same, confessing his crime, and showing his vulnerability to the brunet. He still thought he was a monster, but what Jack had told him made him more at ease with what he believed to be fact.  
  
He'd caused death and destruction, Elian mused, but he wasn't entirely to blame for it. Regardless, all of it was at his hands, and so he thought himself to be a monster. Less guilty, yes, but a monster nonetheless.  
  
As Elian stared at the ceiling, old memories and thoughts crept back into his mind unbidden. It was better now than when he was back on the road again, he guessed. That didn't make the reminiscing any easier. He wondered what had become of Vamara. When he'd last returned to it, the kingdom had been wrapped in winter. Whether it was his doing or some catastrophic disturbance of the balance of nature, Elian did not know. He had been uncertain then, and he remained uncertain to the present day.  
  
The blond thought back to his time at the tower with lady Elesyne, of her thirteen children, and the eldest who was, if he was being honest, his first... love? He wasn't quite sure if love was the proper word to use. If anything, he was fairly certain that the tiny seed of emotion that thrummed happily in Jack's presence was more love than the infatuation he'd had over Vard.  
  
He thought about when Vard had escorted him back to Vama--no. Elian pushed the memories away. Vard had been the very first person whose blood stained his hands, albeit indirectly. He did not want to remember that dark, dark time. Elian sighed, somewhat wishing that his life had gone differently, but at the same time knowing that had anything happened contrary to how things had played out in his life, he probably would never have met Jack, probably never grown up.  
  
Elian closed his eyes, weariness washing over his limbs. With not much else to do, what better way to spend the day than asleep?  
  
*  
  
Elian awoke to the smell of food wafting into the room from the doorway. Jack was standing there with a strange smile on his face, watching as the blond rose from his slumber. "How long have you been there?" Elian asked blearily, blinking in surprise when all of a sudden a wet tongue went across the side of his face. The dog was back by his side again, seemingly not content to just sit there, instead having to show his affection through licking and dog slobber.  
  
"Long enough to know that you snore when you're not having a nightmare" quipped the brunet as he set down the tray of food on the nightstand as he had earlier that morning for their breakfast. The meal was not much different: eggs and meat, except this time there was cheese involved. Elian eyed the cheese, but as soon as Jack had said what he said, Elian blushed.  
  
"I-I do not!" stammered the blond, much to the delight of Jack. The brunet picked up a wooden plate and handed it to Elian. He loaded the blond's plate with an extra helping of everything. A recovering body was, after all, a hungry one.  
  
"Yes you do" said Jack as he placed food on his own plate, grinning toothily at Elian. "Right Glaise?" The dog barked in agreement, licking Elian's jaw and wagging his tail before settling back down.  
  
"Oh not you too" protested Elian, cheeks still red from the ribbing. "I thought we had an understanding here!" he told Glaise as he scratched the underside of the dog's jaw. The white bundle of fur just tilted his head at the blond and barked happily. Elian rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. The two young men spent the rest of the meal in relative silence, Elian relishing every bite, and Jack watching in awe at how the blond seemed to treat every morsel as though it was food from the gods.  
  
When they finished eating and Jack had stowed away everything downstairs, the brunet went back up the stairs. Elian was fidgeting in the bed and he glanced at Jack for a good two seconds before turning away, his cheeks turning a rosy pink once again. "What is it this time?" asked Jack, putting as much false irritation in his voice as he could. Much to his surprise, Elian reddened even further.  
  
"I..." Elian flushed even more. Glaise nudged Elian's stomach in support, a gesture that the blond did not entirely appreciate. Elian squirmed in discomfort and gently pushed the dog aside to the sound of whining and the feeling of a tongue licking his hand as he did so. "I need to..." Jack raised an eyebrow. "I need to do my business" muttered the blond, lowering his gaze to the sheets out of embarrassment.   
  
Jack just stared at Elian for a second before bursting out in laughter. The implication of the statement had yet to hit the brunet, but the fire in Elian's cheeks raged even hotter than the blond thought was possible. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Of course."  _Then._  The unspoken request hit him. "Oh. Oh! You... need my help?" Elian nodded wilting in embarrassment, and squirming on the bed because his bowels were growling at him.  
  
"I-I will be right back!" said Jack, sprinting out of the room. The brunet stopped just short of the doorway. "I'm really sorry, Elian" he said, apologizing profusely. The blond barely had time to nod at Jack before the brunet was running down the stairs to fetch a pail of water, a dipper and a washcloth. It took two excruciating minutes before Jack returned with all he needed.  
  
He picked up Elian and brought him over to the chamber pot in the room. The blond was still blushing, unable to ignore the awkwardness and the embarrassment of the situation. "Hey" said Jack as Elian slowly pulled down his breeches, tryin to avoid any and all eye-contact with the brunet. "Don't be embarrassed. We're all in this situation at some point... And it's not like this is all new to me..." said Jack. "After all, I had to take care of my aging father. There was a point when he could not stand to use the latrine anymore."  
  
The brunet said all of it in good humour, but it did nothing to spare Elian from the shame of being helped to vacate his bowels. "Alright. Alright. Relax, Elian." said Jack as he lowered the blond over the chamberpot, making sure that the blond's hole was squarely over the opening. "There. You may do your business." A flush had also creeped onto the brunet's cheeks and he himself tried his best not to stare at the blond's manhood. Sure, he was accustomed to caring for the infirm, but he had not done it in such an intimate manner as he did with Elian.  
  
It took a few minutes for the two to finish their little awkward moment, and when it was done, Elian could barely talk out of shame. He'd gotten more than a little bit aroused when Jack cleaned him down there. The blond had never thought there would be any other living person that would touch him in that intimate area without the intention of using it to satisfy their own lust, without any regard for his. The brunet, while somewhat delighted that Elian had reacted to his touch with such... excitement, found himself trying his best not to do anything to make the situation any worse.   
  
When they were done, Jack set Elian back on the bed and they regarded each other with fretful glances, neither one noticing the pink cheeks on the other. "I-I'll go and finish the rest of the farm work..." Jack mumbled. He was staring at a spot to his left, trying to avoid Elian's gaze.  
  
Elian did the same thing, but instead he was staring at Glaise and petting the dog who had a blissful expression on his face. "Alright..." Jack took a tentative step towards the bed, then took another back. Elian raised an eyebrow at the brunet who then promptly turned around and clucked for Glaise to follow him. The dog was too busy enjoy the petting to pay attention to Jack. The brunet left the room and descended the stairs without his faithful companion.  
  
Elian flinched when, upon reaching the foot of the stairs and realizing that Glaise was nowhere nearby, Jack yelled up the stairs "GLAISE!!" The dog barked almost sheepishly and pursued his owner.  
  
\---  
  
The small parade stopped in the middle of a marble square, Rein still suspended between the two burly men. For all the friendliness that the priest had shown him, Rein wasn't convinced that there was any sincerity to it. After all, he was still being borne by the two men that had so unceremoniously grabbed him from the bed where Tristan had left him earlier that morning. Another priest approached with shackles, a collar, and one of the belts he'd seen on one of the other men in the cavern.  
  
Rein's eyes bugged out of his head at the sight of the things, and he struggled against his captors as a blond priest approached him after regarding the brunet that had brought him to the damnable place. "We will do you no harm" cooed the other sun priest in mock comfort. Rein refused to believe that any man who came at him with shackles meant no harm.  
  
Before the redhead knew it, the manacles were clasped around his wrists and his ankles. Satisfactorily restrained, the priests gestured for the men to drop him. Rein fell to the marble floor with a thud, his body limply colliding with the cool stone. He groaned through his gag with discomfort and rolled over onto his back. At that moment, his eyes were drawn to the cavern right above him. There seemed to be a door of some sort hewn into the rock above. What it meant, he did not know, nor did he particularly care at the moment.   
  
Rein tried to get up but to no avail. The priest that had fastened the manacles on him stepped on the short length of chain that bound his wrists together, preventing him from being able to gain any leverage whatsoever. "Welcome to the Sanctuary, outsider" said the priest. Rein did not in the least feel welcome.  
  
"This is where the priests of our order come to escape the world above. The only place where we're allowed to shed our pious skin for our old ones." The priest gestured about him. "Look around you, Rein." The redhead's eyes widened when the priest said his name. "Oh we know about you. We've known about you for a long time. We were simply biding our time for the opportune moment to get you, finally." Rein suddenly felt dirty. What did the priest mean that they'd known about him for a long time?  
  
"No matter. Each and every one of these men who is not bound as yourself is a free member of the brotherhood, or at the very least, well on his way." The priest beckoned over to someone beyond Rein's sight. Almost instantly, the redhead heard the sound of footsteps muffled by grass coming their way. "Kneel." said the priest and what entered Rein's vision was one of the naked men with the odd belts, the same one he'd seen the belt being put on mere moments ago.  
  
"He's well on his way to becoming a member of the brotherhood, are you not?" The kneeling man simply nodded, eyes glazed over in what seemed to be a fog of utter pleasure. The man keened when the priest traced his hand down the man's back, forcing him to move, probably jostling the object that was held within him by the belt's contraption. "You have two choices, Rein."  
  
The redhead dreaded the words that would come next. "You may choose to refuse us and accept your sentence..." the priest trailed off, making sure that Rein knew what he was alluding to. The redhead knew what was unsaid very well. Death was the sentence for being like what he was. Or so he thought. "...to be carried out come the next full moon, of course. Or, you may choose to become one of us. Wear the Cage for every day for the next three years and a day, learning the way of the brotherhood, learning to serve and obey your brothers and the gods in everything."  
  
"You will become a full fledged priest of our order. Of course, if this happens, then you are to throw away your old life whenever the sun shines down upon you, and only return to your true self in sanctuaries like these, where the eye of day can cast no light." The priest smiled at him, a visage of almost-genuine warmth. Rein did not know what to think. The proposition seemed definitely attractive. After all, it was death or a life in seclusion. In most situations, life of any sort save a tortured one would always be the better choice.  
  
The redhead did not trust the priests, nor did he like the way that the man said that he needed to cast aside his old self. It almost felt as though if he agreed to spending his life as a member of the brotherhood, that it would no longer entirely be his life at all. Then there was the fact that for three years and a day, he would have to wear the obscene contraption that the priest had called the Cage.  
  
The sun priest noticed Rein eyeing the cage warily, with mixed contempt, disgust, and fear. "It is part of the garb of the order. You must wear it whenever you are to be dressed in the cloth of our ministry, whenever you are in the sunlight." The priest pulled down his breeches to show Rein that he had the same damnable thing on. The redhead found it suspicious that though the priest wore the contraption around his manhood, he did not have the same glazed look in his eyes, or the same euphoria that the other man seemed to be trapped in. Why? Rein could not tell.  
  
"You have until I return to make your decision" said the priest as he rose. "I will leave this here, for you to think about." The priest placed the belt on Rein's chest. It almost felt like a mountain, a heavy weight bearing down on his body. Terror gripped his heart, but for some reason, he felt a stirring in his cock. The priest smiled knowingly at him. "Either way, whether you choose the stake or the order, you will wear this for the next little while."  
  
The other priest that had accompanied Rein knelt down beside him and gently untied the gag from his mouth. "What the fuck is wrong with you people?!" the redhead spat at the priest as soon as he was free of the gag. "Are you all fucking... faggots?" he asked, anger burning behind his eyes.  
  
"Around here we call ourselves reversals, Rein" said the priest in a surprisingly gentle voice. The redhead struggled into a sitting position, sending the belt tumbling from his chest. The other priest caught it almost reverently and set it down on the ground with utmost care.  
  
Rein glared at the priest. "Reversal, faggot, fairy, cocksucker, what difference does it make? You're all traitors! All of you! To people like us! You make me sick." The redhead spat. There were tears flowing from his eyes, but they remained angry and hurt and betrayed. "It's because of you priests and your ways that my kind is hunted down and killed, yet here you fuckers stay, in your underground paradise, buggering each other! Hypocrites!"  
  
Rein gasped when the hand smacked against his cheek, leaving a red mark and more watery eyes on the redhead. "Are you so bent on dying that you do not realize the truth of it all? Do you think us reversals ever had a choice when the church of the Sun Gods came to these lands?" Rein did not speak, instead glaring daggers at the priest before him. If looks could kill, he was certain the brunet priest would be rotting in the ground already.  
  
"It was much worse back in the days of our forefathers! Before the heir of Lycc across the seas was able to subvert the hierarchy of the church. He's the reason that this entire paradise beneath the earth is possible." Rein's glare softened. This was a story he'd never heard before. A place he'd never even faintly heard of in his life. Lycc across the seas... The redhead wondered where it was and what kind of people lived there. Had he not been quite so incensed, he may have spent more time thinking on the matter.  
  
"Were it not for the fact that one of the sons of the Crown Prince of Lycc was a reversal like us, he never would have forced the church to accept his son into their fold. His name was Orryc, or so the story is told." The priest helped keep Rein sitting when he swayed precariously to the side. "Orryc contrived the death of the old Council and replaced it with others he knew as reversals in the Church. He would have changed the teachings, but he knew it would only have caused chaos. Instead he added on to them, and said that all of us brothers would be able to retain our old lives wherever the sun did not shine and the eye of the commonfolk could not see."  
  
"You're all still fucking traitors. And cowards. Why do you need to hide?" Rein bellowed, spittle flying in the sun priest's face. Veins in his neck were bulging and his eyes were narrowed in anger.  
  
Rein's face stung with another slap. "There are two choices that you are given when the sun priests find you. Submit to the Order, or die. Those two. Only ever those two." The redhead bared his teeth in spite. "You'd be surprised how many men would rather die than spend three years and a day as pretty much a eunuch."  
  
"As for having to hide... The Church's teachings outside of these underground enclaves, these Sanctuaries, have not changed. Our kind is still outlawed. Will that change? Time will tell. But until then, none of us priests dare reveal ourselves."  
  
"Why?" asked Rein, words dripping with venom.  
  
The priest grabbed Rein's jaw and looked the redhead in the eye with burning ire. Rein returned the glare and spat in the priest's face. "Are you that stupid? Or are you simply that blind? Reversals die whenever they are found by the common people because of the teachings of the Order. Would you rather die than preach against your own kind in the hopes that if you ever find one of them among your congregation, that you can capture them and offer them the same choice you were given before the commonfolk could tear them limb from limb?" The priest shoved him roughly to the ground. "Do not be a fool, Rennðoch, child of fire."  
  
Rein flinched at the mention of the name that his parents had given him. He'd refused to acknowledge it since the day he'd figured out he could not even properly voice it. "Why can you not just preach change from your pulpits?" he asked, the anger in his voice significantly dampened. The priest had made good points.  
  
"We are bound by ancient magicks to speak only the teachings in the Helionomicon when we preach in the light of the sun, no more, and no less."  
  
Rein tore his gaze from the priest and allowed it to settle on the 'initiate' that was still kneeling nearby. "What's wrong with him?" asked Rein, still uncertain about what the choice he was to make. There was merit to what the priest had said, but Rein did not know if he was ready to take on three years of not being given the single pleasure that had allowed him peace when the world around him would not: spilling his seed. In truth, there was a part of Rein that found the idea oddly arousing. Deep inside, the redhead knew that he did not want to burn to death at the stake come the next full moon.   
  
"You've been taken by a man, you would know" said the priest almost patronizingly. The man gestured to Rein's well-used hole.  
  
"Once. I wouldn't say I know" replied the redhead, face colouring in shame. He'd committed rape. On his best friend. On the man he'd loved. Whether it was for better or for worse, he had violated the one person that meant everything to him.  
  
"Then last night was your first time?" Rein nodded, eyes still fixed on the kneeling man. "Then did you feel the utter pleasure when he touched that place inside you with his cock?" Rein's manhood twitched in remembrance of it. The priest looked at his growing erection and smiled knowingly. "It is pleasure unlike any other." The priest pointed to the part of the belt that was meant to go within him. "That will rub that part of you with any small movement, ensuring that you are always pleasured."  
  
"But you cannot cum." said Rein, unable to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. He wondered what pleasure and torment he must be feeling. From the look on his face, the redhead supposed that his entire body at least was awash in pleasure, save his cock. Ironic considering that a man's cock was often the centre of all his pleasure.  
  
"But you cannot cum, not in the manner you are used to, perhaps. Your seed will spill, but it will only dribble, not spurt. Pleasure eventually turns into pain as your cock begs for release but it will not come. Not for three years and a day." Rein looked at the priest. Was he prepared for that torture? The redhead did not know. Was he prepared for death? Rein knew he was not. The choice was quickly coming upon him.  
  
"Why are you not like him then? Are you not wearing the same thing?"  
  
"When we have duties at the surface, we remove this--" said the brunet, removing the smooth curved phalange from the belt. "--we've no need for this pleasurable distraction on the earth above." The priest straightened and saw the other returning. "Decide fast, Rennðoch. Do not be a fool, or you will soon learn that fire devours even her own children."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there faithful reader! I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter. Things are picking up again and the shit will hit the fan very soon.
> 
> I want to hear from you! What do you think of the budding relationship between Jack and Elian. Is it frustrating that they're finding it so difficult to trust one another? Also. What do you think of the order of the sun priests? Do they seem horrible and twisted? Or genuinely just part of the order for their own protection?
> 
> So yeah. That's it for this week's chapter. Please! Comment if you have anything at all to say about the story. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> Here's a small preview of next week's instalment:
> 
> _The brunet had a nervous air about him. "Do you mind if I ask you to promise me something?"_
> 
> _Elian regarded Jack warily. He wasn't sure whether or not he was willing to do anything of the sort. "It depends on the promise, Jack" he said as kindly as he could. There was very little chance that the brunet would ask him to promise something he would be very uncomfortable with, but just in case, Elian tried to be as non-committal as possible._
> 
> _"If you ever find the chance, will you come back for me?" Jack asked, voice small and somewhat desperate._


	9. Kings of Winter

The embarrassing encounter had managed to drive a wedge between the two young men for the rest of the day. Jack didn't want to talk to Elian because he couldn't quite manage to think of the blond without thinking of the other man's cock just yet, and Elian didn't want to talk to Jack because he was still quite ashamed of having to be aided in taking a shit. It wasn't until dinner that their two paths crossed again. If anything, though, it was much earlier than that when Glaise managed to find his way back into Elian's bed, giving the blond some much-needed company in his misery.  
  
When the farm chores were done, Glaise had looked at Jack with such a piteous expression that the brunet had scratched his head and let the dog run up the stairs as he wanted. The brunet was beginning to wonder whether the dog would take Elian's departure harder than he would. He shook his head, trying to clear it for the time being of that depressing thought. As he'd worked through the day, he'd come to terms with the fact that Elian was probably leaving him regardless.   
  
Jack had actually considered leaving the farm to travel with the blond, but he knew that he couldn't, not unless fate forced his hands. The farmstead was all he'd ever known, and he wasn't sure he would very much like the world outside of it. Apart from that, the farm had been lovingly built by his fathers from the ground up... it was their labour of love, their life's work. Jack could not, in good conscience, abandon the place that had given him a new lease on life to the ravages of the seasons and the passage of time.  
  
Halfway through milking one of the cows and checking on the calf growing inside her, Jack resolved to approach Elian about his departure in an entirely different manner to how he'd done so the previous night. He knew he owed the blond an apology. In the meantime, he was going to the kitchen and cutting up vegetables for the pottage that he was about to make. When he was done he threw them into the cauldron that hung above the hearth and stirred in some salt and pepper and a few chunks of meat. Peasant food, Nyko had called it, but Jack loved the taste of the stew nonetheless.  
  
Jack knew it to be an unfair judgment as he'd not had even the slightest morsel of noblemen's food. He wasn't sure how great he would find such refined cuisine. After all, he preferred the wild and simple flavours that nature provided: the berries and roots that he sometimes found out foraging, the milk from his cows, the eggs from his hens, the vegetables and herbs from his garden, and the barley and rye from his fields. All of those could be crafted into some simple and rustic, but, to Jack's untrained and unrefined palate, delicious foods.  
  
Once the stew was done cooking, Jack prepared two bowls for himself and Elian before walking up the stairs and back to the room. He breathed deeply before pushing open the door. The sound caught Elian's attention and the two locked eyes for a second. Both blushed in the same instant and turned their eyes away from the other, cheeks burning in mutual embarrassment. "I'm sorry about a while ago. I didn't mean to make fun of you..." said Jack as he set down the tray on the nightstand by Elian.   
  
The blond's blush deepened as he forced himself to meet Jack's eyes. "It's alright..." he said, trailing off. The brunet raised an eyebrow as he noticed a shiver run up Elian's body. "Glaise!" protested the blond. The rambunctious dog had managed to worm his way behind Elian in the moment of awkwardness that he and Jack had shared and was now licking the small of Elian's back. Reaching behind him, the blond was able to find Glaise and push him gently away. The dog had the gall to yip happily at him.  
  
Elian shook his head and stared at the food hungrily. Jack saw the look that Elian cast at the food and laughed. "Famished, are we?" Elian nodded and smiled sheepishly at Jack. Truth be told, he'd been famished for well over two hours now. He didn't want to tread too much on Jack's hospitality though, so he bided his time until the brunet came up with the food. Grinning, the brunet handed Elian a bowl of pottage. "I know it's not the best, but it's a stew of pretty much everything I grow out here on the farm... except maybe milk, but milk isn't great for stews as far as I can tell."  
  
"Oh. It's alright, Jack" said Elian, taking bite of the stew. His eyes lit up. It was definitely not food fit for the table of a lord much less a prince, but the flavours were hearty and bold. He liked it. Whatever refinement his palate had had when he was crown prince of Vamara was now gone, replaced by a tongue that savoured any and all food when it came. "It doesn't get much better than this when you're always on the run..." mused Elian. Jack could hear the hint of sadness and regret on Elian's voice. The blond took another bite and said "But I have to keep moving, all on my lonesome. No one likes different, I guess."  
  
"I'm okay with different" said Jack, gulping down a bite of the stew. He frowned. He'd forgotten the bread that usually went with the stew. It didn't matter. Not now at least. He didn't want Elian to think he was beginning to feel uncomfortable talking with the blond. "You don't have to run away from me." Jack stirred the stew in his bowl with his spoon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elian stiffen at what he said. "But I understand if you want to..."  
  
Elian took a bite. "It's not that I want to run away from you, Jack" he said. The brunet looked up at him, sadness evident in those tawny eyes. "If things were different, I would have loved to stay. Believe me." Jack smiled. It was true. Elian did want to stay. The farm, Glaise, Jack, they all lent him a sense of normalcy that had eluded his grasp ever since he was a child, cursed with his ice. "But I'm being chased now. I don't want you to get hurt."  
  
"I understand that..." said Jack, absentmindedly playing with his food. "But you don't have to protect me from them, Elian." Jack flinched when he remembered Nyko getting mad at him for not eating his food. Meals were sometimes hard to come by on the farm, especially if the crop was not doing well. Anything and everything they found was essential for their survival. When he'd angered his father for not eating food he found repulsive, the lesson had been beaten into him. He took a bite of the stew. "Why don't you just scare them off with your ice, anyway?"  
  
Elian shook his head sadly, chewing on a piece of meat as he did. "Maybe. I guess I really don't have to protect you from them. I'm sure you're capable of defending yourself." Jack nodded. He was not the most capable swordsman, not by far, but he knew how to use the quarterstaff. His father Kyle had taught him. "I didn't mean to insult your pride" said Elian a bit cheekily despite the serious nature of their conversation. Jack blushed. "But I need to protect you from myself. I almost  _killed_  you."  
  
"Okay. Do what you feel you need to do" said Jack, shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew that there was no convincing Elian, especially not after what had happened with his nightmare. "I'm sorry for the way I acted last night..." Jack sniffled. "It's just, without my parents, all I have is Glaise. I just... don't want to feel this lonely."  
  
"I understand, Jack. Trust me, if I could, I would stay. I really want to. But I can't. Not unless I can get rid of this ice within me."  
  
"Can I ask you one thing, then?" asked the brunet, haltingly, uncertainly. His voice was soft and -- Elian knew he could not be wrong about it -- scared. Scared of what, wondered the blond. Perhaps him. Perhaps what he would say. Uncertainty gripped Elian's heart.  
  
Elian raised an eyebrow at the brunet. "Sure?"  
  
"Would you mind staying for at least as long as it takes for the first calf of the year to be born? One of my cows is pregnant..." Jack trailed off, looking expectantly at Elian. He wanted the blond to agree. Any further amount of time together would allow him to be more at peace with the blond leaving. He could almost hear the machinery of Elian's mind turning, ticking, thinking about the request. "It's just that work on the farm is difficult. I'd appreciate the company and help for at least a little while longer..."  
  
The two ate in silence as Elian pondered the request. Finally, when they were both done, and the bowls were back on the tray, scraped clean, Elian reached out and gripped Jack's forearm. "Alright Jack. Alright. I'll stay until the first calf is born" said Elian, relenting. It was the least he could do for Jack, who saved him from the very brink of death. If there was any repayment he could do, it was this one. Truth be told, he was somewhat relieved that Jack had not asked for a sexual favour instead. Though deep inside, there was a part of Elian that was disappointed. Elian smiled genuinely at the brunet.  
  
The grin that Jack shot back at him was almost blindingly bright. It was as if he was a kid who'd just received the present he'd wanted for the last couple years. Elian couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. The smile vanished almost immediately, causing the blond to regard Jack with a concerned look. The brunet had a nervous air about him. "Do you mind if I ask you to promise me something?"  
  
Elian regarded Jack warily. He wasn't sure whether or not he was willing to do anything of the sort. "It depends on the promise, Jack" he said as kindly as he could. There was very little chance that the brunet would ask him to promise something he would be very uncomfortable with, but just in case, Elian tried to be as non-committal as possible.   
  
"If you ever find the chance, will you come back for me?" Jack asked, voice small and somewhat desperate. Elian almost felt bad for wanting to say no because there was absolutely no guarantee he would ever find the chance to return to the quaint farmstead. He did not want to give the brunet any false hope. At the same time, he did not want to break Jack's heart. "Just... if you can, don't let me die alone."  
  
The way Jack said it broke a part of Elian's heart. The brunet sounded so lonely, so lost, so sad, that the blond couldn't help but feel terrible for having to leave. "Alright, Jack. I promise. I swear it on They of the earth, and They of the sky." Elian looked Jack in the eye. " _I swear it._ " he whispered, wiping away the wetness in Jack's eyes.  
  
\---  
  
"Open the Eye that I may pronounce judgment over this creature!" The priest, straightened, tall and regal. His face was stern, and impassive, the visage of judgment, of merciless sentence. He grabbed the rope that was dangling nearby and pulled on it three times. A great clanging filled the entire cavern.  _Clang. Clang. Clang._  Thrice rang the bells, once each a summons for the three suns that presided over all the earth. The stone gate high above in the cavern's ceiling grated open ever so slowly, allowing a growing shaft of morning light, brazen, and in this moment, almost-divine, within the sacred Sanctuary.  
  
"In the sight of my brothers, and those who will soon serve for the Order..." Rein shivered, feeling even more vulnerable than he had been before, despite the shackles on his wrists, the chains about his ankles. Bathed under the glaring, scrutinizing, penetrating light of the sun that streamed from above, he felt naked as the day he was born. "Under the light of the sun, the eye of Demer, the herald of new beginnings, I pronounce judgment upon this man who cowers before me and the might of the gods."  
  
"Let it be known henceforth." The priest's voice boomed across the vast cavern, echoing against the stone, and ringing in Rein's ears. It was the voice of authority, of gods-given right to judge, to rule, to execute. The redhead shivered where he knelt, head bowed to the ground, unable to face the mighty gaze of the gods in the light that streamed from the Eye. "That come the next full moon, he shall die!" A dull roar of cheering erupted from the men. A small broken sound, all the more pathetic for its difference among so many other jubilant voices, escaped from Rein's lips. "May the Scorn of the Moon be merciful upon you."  
  
The stone gate slid shut, and the searing light of the sun abandoned the despairing redhead in the middle of the marble square. The priest that had pronounced his judgment hefted the chastity belt and raised it so that all eyes, glazed with pleasure or otherwise could see it. Another wave of cheering rolled over Rein, the deep bass rumble and the high tenor peals of celebration shook the very bones within his flesh. The men who were wearing the full belts themselves groaned impotently in seeming-jubilation that another was about to experience what they had endured for varying amounts of time. It was a wonder they were aware at all of what was going on.  
  
The sun priest threw open his cloak and allowed it to fall to the ground as he stepped out of his breeches and his tunic. Rein's eyes widened, having expected more of a fat, deplorable body hidden under the folds of those clothes that left everything to the imagination. The priest's body was chiseled, and bronzed by the light of the sun. Had he not been condemning himself, Rein would have had the grace to drool over the sheer masculinity that the priest commanded, standing naked over his own prone, bound form. "Enjoy this while it lasts. This will be the last release you will get for a while..." teased the priest as he stroked his cock into full erection. "Don't fight. You'll only make things worse."  
  
Rein glared daggers at the man, trying his best to wriggle away. It was his final act of rebellion, the final assertion of his individuality, the final surge of his courage before he resigned himself to the fate he had chosen... not that it was much of a choice. His wriggling was to no avail. The shackles around his wrists and his ankles prevented him from moving too much. The priest threw Rein's bound legs over his shoulder and slid his cock home into the redhead's hole, eliciting a long moan from Rein. The other priests cheered at the salacious sound.  
  
Damn. Rein gritted his teeth in disdain despite the evident pleasure that was coursing through his veins, that were setting fire to every nerve, ecstasy overwhelming. The priest knew how to fuck properly, and well. Every movement, small as it may be, was touching that button deep inside the redhead. His own cock sprang to full mast, and the priest's hand wrapped around it and began to pump. The redhead arched off of the floor in pleasure as his orgasm began to build in his loins. "Please. Please. I'm cumming!!" screamed Rein as his cock began to spurt sticky strand after sticky strand of his come across his own chest.  
  
As the redhead's ass muscles contracted around his cock, the priest's orgasm also approached. He came into the redhead's thrice-used channel, flooding it with warm, milky white cum that immediately began to gush out when he withdrew his member. Only a little had managed to escape Rein when the redhead felt the part of the belt meant for his ass at his entrance. The priest pushed it in with a loud, obscene squelch. The priest smiled, knowing that he had bred the redhead quite well. Instantly, Rein felt the insistent pressure on his button and his eyes very nearly rolled up into his head from the sheer pleasure of it.  
  
The redhead's still-hard cock was shoved unceremoniously into the tube of the metal guard of the belt. It was slick, and, despite its looks, oddly comfortable. His stones followed suit not too long afterwards. Post-orgasmic bliss and the pleasure that accompanied every small jostle of the apparatus in his ass made very little work of Rein's ability to protest. When Rein's tackle was safely encased in the metal shell that would be its home for the next while, the priest locked it onto the belt and tapped it, making Rein groan in response. The keys were given to the priest that had brought the redhead to the Sanctuary. "So it has been said and writ in the seed of man, so let it be written in the Book of Judgments!" proclaimed the priest that had just fucked Rein as he pulled his garments back on.  
  
"You would do well to heed my warning, Rennðoch. Do not make this any more difficult than it already is" said the brunet sun priest that had brought him to the Sanctuary. The words meant little to Rein's overloaded mind. He was swimming in persistent bliss, his eyes glazed over with pleasure from the insistent, incessant pressure that the smooth object in his ass provied. The only response the priest got was a strand of clear sticky fluid, pre-come, dripping out of the belt's piss-hole.  
  
\---  
  
The sun was down, the waxing moon was out, and his two idiot companions, who, for being dairy farmers were surprisingly immensely stupid at handling animals, were asleep two bales of hay away from Tristan. The brunet himself was reclining rather uncomfortably on another nearby, staring outside the barn window at the moon. They'd managed to find lodgings for the night, but at the cost of some labour around the farmstead. Tristan knew they were close. They  _had_  to be. He could feel it in his bones. Despite that, a tight vice of apprehension was wound around his heart and he knew it was not because of the winterchild.  
  
His thoughts unwillingly drifted back to Rein, the redhead whom he'd left tied up on the bed in a fit of spite. Had he done the right thing? It seemed like all he'd been doing recently was fuck things up with hasty, ill-thought-out decisions. He was being rash and not thinking things through. Now, he was stuck worrying about his childhood friend, and what could happen to the man.  
  
Tristan remembered the days when they were young and he'd so looked up to Rein as he knew the redhead looked up to him. They were the inseparable duo, the unconquerable partners, the friends against all odds... All that had gone to shit that one day that they went into the forest to find one of the creatures known to them as a blademane. For all the two boys had known then, such beasts were mere mythological fancy, constructs of idle minds looking for ways to explain away certain mysteries of the world around them.  
  
Oh how wrong they had been. Oh woe were they that very fateful day, when the accursed beast attacked. Such terror and gore did it bring that if not for Rein's rape of him, he would not have remembered it. His young mind had locked the memories of the day away so that they would not damage his admittedly-fragile psyche. Guilt welled in his stomach. His wife had turned him against his childhood best friend, all the while, Rein was still trying to recover from the blademane's attack...  
  
Tristan raised a hand to his mouth, stifling a sob that threatened to spill from him. Rein had saved him that day. Had taken a strike to the back so that Tristan could get away unscathed. From the foggy haze of memory that he had of the previous night, there was a large scar on the redhead's back that stretched from shoulder to hip. There it was. Proof. Proof that it had not all been childish fantasy, but a tangible event, one that had left a lasting mark on his once-best friend.  
  
He wanted to turn back then and there, ride his horse to the ground to get back to the village and retrieve Rein from the tavern. He'd made a terrible choice. He'd betrayed the one person in the world that had cared for him when no one else but his daughter would, that had cared for him despite all he'd done to estrange the redhead. Tristan silently cursed himself. He was part of the group that had, behind Rein's back, decided that it was for the best of the village if he lived to be a tanner, despite his other ambitions.  
  
Better to keep him nearby just to have an eye on him, but far enough away that he doesn't bother anyone, they'd said back then. Gods, how could he have been so stupid? So insensitive? Rein had been his friend, pretty much the other half of his life back when they were young... The redhead had fucking saved his life, and what did he repay the fiery-haired man with? Exile. True, it was not to a faraway land, merely to the outskirts of their small village, but it was exile all the same.  
  
Tristan tossed his head back and folded his arms behind his neck. Perhaps he deserved what he'd gotten from Rein. Perhaps he deserved the rape, the shame of having his cock sucked by a man, of spilling his seed inside a man... Abominable, his mind railed at him, . Admittedly, part of him found the concept appealing, if only because it was Rein, but the rest of him found it emasculating, and shameful, and repugnant.  
  
Nevertheless, none of it warranted leaving the redhead at the mercy of whomever and whatever, which was probably what he'd done. He'd left the person he once considered his best friend for dead. That much he knew. If he was unable to return to the village soon, he may very well return to Rein, torn limb from limb. The redhead might have been a... a man who loved other men, but he was still Tristan's friend. Why the brunet ever let his emotions get the better of him, he did not know. It seemed that he was ruining everyone's lives just by existing.  
  
In any case, it was too late to turn back. If he did not take revenge on the winterchild for all the misfortune that his visit had brought, Tristan would have wasted so many lives in his harebrained pursuit of vengeance. He rolled over and closed his eyes despite knowing that sleep would not come. At the very least he could rest his weary eyes.  
  
\---  
  
The rest of the evening had come and gone without a hitch. No more embarrassing encounters or serious conversations had to take place. The two young men simply spent hours in each other's company, learning what they could about the other, and what strange circumstances had led them where they were today. Though both said all they were comfortable with, they'd only really touched the very tips of their personal icebergs. Neither, though they knew the other could be trusted to some extent, wanted to divulge their deepest secrets, the fears that kept them up at night. That trust would have to be built up over time, time that they did not have.  
  
The dawn had broken and dim gray light graced the sky outside. Jack had left the window open during the night, as the heat in the room had been nearly-stifling. Elian was awake, but both the boy and the dog to either side of him were sound asleep. The blond smiled at the memory of the previous night. Jack had tried to get Glaise off the bed to sleep in his corner downstairs, but the dog had stubbornly refused, almost biting the brunet on one occasion. After that, Jack had given up on the futile effort, and Glaise had promptly gone to sleep.  
  
For a moment, Elian lay there with his mind swimming with a million thoughts. He was so fortunate to have found Jack and his farmstead, an island of stability, sincerity, and relative peace in a world that was a tempest of sour emotion, hatred, and misfortune. What had he done right that the gods saw it fit to bless him with the experience? A sudden, sinking dread filled Elian when he realized that it might all be a ploy by the cruel gods of his father.  
  
That it was not reward that he'd found Jack, but punishment of the cruellest kind. That all the innocence and goodness that was in the farmlad would be ripped apart, torn to shreds, indelibly destroyed in front of his very eyes. Elian gulped. A lump had formed in his throat. He did not want Jack to get hurt. His feet were feeling better. If he could borrow shoes he could probably slip away without anyone noticing. Then again, he had made a promise to the farmlad... He didn't want to break Jack's heart.  
  
Elian groaned in frustration just as he felt Jack shift in the bed beside him. He turned to the brunet, pushing aside his fears for but a moment, replacing them with an honest smile and saying "Goodmo--" Jack was not awake. In fact, the brunet's eyes were squeezed close. He'd curled into a tight ball and was shivering. Elian watched the brunet with horror-stricken eyes. He reached out, but did not touch Jack. His heart sank when he felt it. That telltale sign. That writhing coldness within Jack. The Curse had spread to the brunet.  
  
"Jack!" Elian cried, shaking the brunet awake. Ice spiralled up his arms, tender and... calm. Elian stopped. It was so different from what had happened when Jack had tried to wake him. So much kinder. He watched in awe as the spiraling frost gave him a fragile glove with intricate fractals and beautiful curls. "Jack, wake up!" said the blond, balling his hands into fists and crushing the thin veneer of ice over them.  
  
The brunet cracked his eyes open and whispered to Elian "So cold... So cold..." The blond did not know what else to do. He grabbed Jack and pulled him into a tight embrace.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Jack. I'm sorry. I should leave now... I didn't mean to pass the curse on to you..." Elian did not know what he had done to deserve this curse. What his mother and father had done to warrant the wrathful vengeance of the gods that they decided to curse their first -- and should have been only -- born son with ice. It was unfair. Unfair that he should carry the sins of his father and his father's father before him. It was unfair that others should have to bear the crippling burden of others.//  
  
The brunet weakly swatted away the hand that Elian held up to his face. "Don't be dumb, Elian. I've known since yesterday when I accidentally froze Glaise's nose." Jack chuckled as he shivered. "I still don't think it's a curse. I just wish it wasn't so... damn... cold..." he said with a chuckle. A band of hair around Jack's temple turned white. "I think that's why he refused to listen to me last night. Little bastard's probably still mad."  
  
"Jack. It  _is_  a burden. I'm sorry" said Elian, planting a kiss on the brunet's forehead. He didn't know what else to do, but to comfort the brunet as he shivered.  
  
"Don't be. I don't think it is." Jack smiled at the feeling of Elian's lips on his forehead. Now if only he didn't feel so weak, he would have gotten up and made them breakfast. The cold that sent uncontrollable shivers through his body made that impossible, as much as he wanted to.  
  
"What you think it might be doesn't change what it is, Jack" admonished the blond gently. There was beauty to his ice, yes, Jack had helped him see that, but no great amount of beauty could cover the destruction that the power wrought. The death it heralded, and the lives it left unstable. No amount of lilies could make a pile of shit look or smell any better, his tutor had always said.  
  
"I could say the same for you, Elian." Jack was, admittedly, right. Just because Elian believed that his ice was a burden did not mean it truly was. In the same way that just because Jack thought it was a blessing did not make it so. It simply was and not one or the other. Elian sighed and pulled Jack closer as the first sliver of golden sunlight appeared over the horizon.  
  
As it graced their brows, in much the same way as the setting sun had Jack's parents in the portrait, an indescribable feeling spread through both young men's bodies. A spark of warmth. A smattering of pleasure. A joyous, joyous tingling. The smell of fresh dewy earth. The taste of sweet berries. They felt like bells, their bodies ringing in harmony with the sunlight. Elian raised a pale hand to the brazen light of the dawn, and watched, mouth agape as his pallor retreated from the light, leaving him with the healthy, pink skin that he'd always envied of his brother. "What was that?" breathed Jack in awe.  
  
"I don't know, Jack..." said Elian with as much surprise as the brunet had in his voice. "I don't know." Jack didn't feel so cold anymore, not as long as he was in contact with the blond. The moment they pulled apart, the cold returned, but not as powerful as it had been before. Both of them felt it, but it was at the back of their minds, a second thought, an annoying buzz that was easy enough to ignore. Tawny eyes met Azure ones, both wide with astonishment at what had just transpired.  
  
Then they lingered. Astonishment turned to gratefulness... Then, gratefulness turned to tenderness, and tenderness turned to something akin to infatuation, though neither boy would have admitted to it at the moment. Infatuation turned to embarrassment, and then fear. They turned away from each other, cheeks burning with a blush. Had they realized how much they were acting like young men falling in love for the first time, they would have laughed. Alas, Elian was too steeped in the cruelties of the world to know that, and Jack was too ignorant of the world beyond his farm to understand.  
  
Had the gods finally seen it fit to give both of them respite? Perhaps. Perhaps it was simply a test, or a sign that they had both forged their own path. No mere mortal could know the will of the heavens, and though neither Jack nor Elian were now mere mortal men, they still could not know that forbidden fruit of knowledge that all gods did. "That was... amazing, Elian" said Jack, voice breathy and awed.  
  
No response came from the blond. The brunet only heard a soft tinkling, as though a child's laugh come from the other side of the bed. He turned around to face Elian and saw perhaps the most beautiful thing, second to Elian's face, of course, that he'd ever seen. Hovering above the blond's delicate fingers was a snowflake larger than any snowflake had any right to be, but nevertheless, it was there.   
  
Fractals graced its six sides, and it spun slowly, shedding tiny clouds of frost as it did. Where Elian's ice had been beautiful but a little rough before, this was absolutely stunning. Gone were the little spindly cracks that characterized his ice, the bubbles of air that sometimes distorted it. No, this ice was pure, and beautiful, a grand reminder of the innocence that the blond had long since lost to the cruel world.  
  
Elian was speechless, having not known that his ice could create such beauty. The blond jumped when Jack found his way closer to him and told him "Elian... that is amazing..." He turned to face the brunet, bringing the abnormally large snowflake in between them. It glittered in the sunlight, casting flecks of golden light all about the room, and the bed.  
  
"I didn't know I was capable of such... beauty..." said the blond, tears brimming in his eyes. "All my life, my ice has been a thing of destruction, of disruption, an annoyance, a curse. Never beauty. Never. Even back home, invariably, I would make someone slip, or make someone sick with the cold that I brought..."   
  
The blond trailed off, still riveted to the snowflake in his hands. "...even my own brother was hurt by my ice... Was this what you saw when you first set your eyes on me, Jack?" asked the blond, voice small and sincere.  
  
"It was... I remember thinking you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen" said the brunet, tentatively reaching out and wiping a tear from the corner of the blond's eye. His voice was soft and comforting.  
  
"I wish I could have been you... I wish I could see myself in a new light..." The blond's voice shook with sheer emotion. The creation that rotated placidly between himself and the brunet clashed with what he had always believed he was: a monster. "I wish..." the blond drew in a long shaky breath. "I wish... I could see myself as beautifully as I see this snowflake..." Elian balled his hands into fists.  
  
The snowflake cracked in half, and then crumbled, showering the sheets between himself and Jack with powdery ice. "I wish I could, but these hands are forever stained with blood..." Ice tinged with red spread from the blond's fingertips down his arm. "The blood of kin, of kindness, of strangers, and of enemies... Why must a monster be capable of such beauty, Jack?"  
  
The brunet stroked Elian's cheek. "Because the monster can't see himself as anything other than the wrongs he's done."  
  
*  
  
Elian had drifted off after that, and Jack, not wanting to disturb the blond, had snuck off to make breakfast and gather the herbs he needed for the poultice that Elian's feet required. The brunet did not leave without making breakfast for Elian, though, and eating some himself. He brought the food up to the blond and set it on the nightstand before leaving the house.  
  
The day was nice, and Jack wanted to do a routine sweep of the grounds before he went out foraging. He'd bid Glaise stay with Elian just in case the blond woke up without company and panicked. Jack grabbed his shepherd's crook from the barn and went on his way around the farm, idly dragging the hook through the ground. He was unaware of the frost that intermittently curled on the blades of grass and glittered in the sunlight.  
  
Everything was going fairly well until Jack got to the vegetable patch, and the carnage there. Well, the mess, at least, was limited to where he'd planted the carrots. The brunet arrived just in time to spot a... man riding a... reindeer, running away from the farm. "Hey!" yelled Jack, breaking into a run, his shepherd's crook trailing behind him. "Hey! Come back with those!" There was a burlap sack swinging from the man's shoulder as the reindeer galloped away.  
  
"HEY!" he yelled, pointing his crook at the silhouette of the retreating man just as the reindeer dashed through the trees. He shook the staff angrily, and a bolt of ice crackled and zigzagged through the air, tossing him on his ass with the recoil. Like lightning, the ice crackled angrily as it surged through the air and hit the rider's back, exploding in an angry fractal pattern that curled over the man's side and shoulders.  
  
Jack managed to catch a glimpse of the man sagging in his saddle before the trees swallowed the two: rider and beast, obscuring them from the brunet's vision. The brunet ran after them, only to find that the rider had not made it very far into the treeline. He was collapsed by a tree, and the reindeer was licking his face. The reindeer's ministrations managed to knock the man's hat off, revealing a generous mop of golden-blond hair.  
  
Nearby, the sack of carrots was open, the orange things strewn about in the dirt. Jack hadn't realized they were ready for harvest, but apparently they were. The carrots were still his, by any account, and he made his way stealthily over, as the reindeer was preoccupied. Using the head of the crook, Jack hooked the sack and began dragging it towards where he was hiding.  
  
Instantly, the reindeer's head snapped to him, fixing him with a beady glare that made the brunet's blood run cold. "Now now, I just want my carrots." The reindeer nickered angrily at him and leveled its antlers, preparing to charge at Jack, who was slowly trying to back away from the affronted creature. "Okay..." he said, having never encountered such an aggressive reindeer.  
  
The brunet was about to make a run for it, when the blond man "Sven. Don't." The reindeer's eyes bugged out and it pranced -- pranced! -- back to the still-recovering man, licking his face like a trained dog. Jack wasn't quite used to such a strange sight, so he just hastily retrieved the bag of carrots before trying to leave. He was in no mood to try and fight the un-reindeer-like reindeer and its rider.  
  
Before the brunet could take a single step with the burlap sack, he found himself stopped in his tracks by an immovable force. In this case, said immovable force was the reindeer. More specifically, it was the reindeer's teeth, fastened tightly around one corner of the sack. Jack tightened his grip on the wooden staff when the reindeer neighed at him.  
  
Jack ducked when a broken lute sailed over his head, the strings barely missing him. "Aww come on! You made me break my lute!" The brunet let go of the sack in surprise when the blond man straightened to his full height. He turned to run, convincing himself that he could live without carrots until the next carrot harvest. He did not have to die needlessly trying to retrieve the damnable orange things.  
  
The entire running away part never happened, because before Jack knew it, he was getting picked up by the scruff of his neck. The blond was large, though not as looming and intimidating as the brunet had initially thought. Jack tried to kick the man but being held at the height and distance he was, he didn't really make much of an impact on the burly blond. "Jack Frost" chuckled the blond.  
  
"H-How did you know my name?" sputtered the brunet, not knowing what to make of the other person. He was let down gently, but the brunet was very suspicious. "Get off my land. You're not welcome here" he then demanded, hefting the shepherd's crook in both hands and leveling the head at Kristoff. "I've got this and I'm not afraid to use it." Jack jumped because as though on cue, ice crackled in the middle of the bend of the crook.  
  
"I'm aware..." said the blond, setting Jack down, -- much to the farmlad's bewilderment -- cracking his back, and letting out a breath of relief. "Gods that's better. Kristoff... though most people would know me as Harold." Jack lowered the staff for a moment, in utter confusion. It was quite a leap to go from Kristoff to Harold. "I don't like revealing my identity to most people" said the blond, taking a step towards Jack.  
  
The brunet winced, accidentally shooting a bolt of ice that grazed the entire left side of Kristoff's head, freezing his hair to his face. "Don't come closer." The blond raised both hands and took a step back from Jack, respecting the brunet's boundaries. Normally, the farmlad would've been far more wary of the situation, but the severe lack of sense was throwing him off his game. "How do you know my name?!" demanded the brunet, yelling now.  
  
Jack took a cautious step backwards when the reindeer -- Sven? -- nickered angrily at him again. "Gods. Calm down. I won't hurt you" said the blond, sitting on the ground between a nearby tree's roots. "I have my ways" said the bard simply, brushing his hands together in a dismissive fashion. Jack opened his mouth to speak. "I know you don't trust me, but if I wanted to hurt you, you would already be dead." The blond picked up one of the carrots that had been strewn on the ground nearby and bit into it.  _"And I would be that much closer to the grave myself"_  mused the bard.  
  
Sure, Jack didn't trust the stranger, and perhaps he should've just ran away right then and there, but the fact that this man he'd never seen before knew his name, kept him curious enough to root him to the spot. It wasn't enough to make Jack turn away and mutter a soft "oof!" in sympathy when the reindeer kicked the blond square across the jaw right after he took a bite of the carrot.   
  
"Fine! Fine! You can have half of it" protested the blond, biting off half the carrot and giving the rest to the reindeer who then happily trotted off to a corner and sat down to eat the carrot. "I also happen to know exactly what you are. You like men." A chill ran up Jack's spine and another bolt of ice shot out of the staff, striking the other side of Kristoff's face this time.  
  
"Hey! Get your fucking ice under control. I know you  _just_  got it and have very little control over it, but gods, relax!" Jack glared at the blond. For one, the blond was eating  _his_  carrot. He'd worked hard for that crop, and here was a thief with the gall to eat part of it in front of him.  _Who does that?_  For another, the blond knew his deepest darkest secret! Jack felt violated, soiled, dirtied.   
  
Kristoff adjusted himself. A bolt of ice struck out, barely missing the top of the blond's head. The burly man frowned at Jack. "Look, don't worry. I do too. I'm actually looking for my ideal man, but it's a bit more difficult in this world we live in, eh?" Jack's mouth moved wordlessly for a moment, unsure what to answer. A little resentment wormed its way into his heart at the light and dismissive way that the bard said he liked men as well. There were many people who did not have the fortune or privilege to be able to do so, and Jack was among their number.  
  
First of all, the blond was a thief. Second, the blond's reindeer was a fucking freak of nature. Third, he'd almost been hit by a flying, albeit broken, lute. Fourth, the man knew his name. Fifth, the man knew his secret. Sixth, the man was apparently just like himself an Elian. Finally, and as it truly deserved mentioning, he'd never even met the man before!   
  
Jack threw up his hands, giving up on trying to comprehend everything and sat on the forest floor, staring at the blond across from him with an utterly befuddled look. And he'd thought Elian was a strange, eldritch creature. No. This blond, reindeer-riding thief was, if anything, beyond fathoming. Were all blonds such walking mysteries?  
  
"How do you talk so freely of these things? Aren't you afraid someone's going to find out and hurt you?" blurted out the brunet. He'd not intended to think out loud, but it was almost like he was not in control of his own tongue, not at the moment, at least. "Gods. My fathers said that many people they've known have died for simply liking people with the same parts as they." Jack clapped a hand over his mouth. Again. Not in control of his words.  
  
"Eh." The blond shrugged and picked up another carrot before taking a bite and getting another kick to the head. "Would you stop it?!" he yelled at the reindeer, throwing the carrot at it and leaning over, straining with his arm to reach another. Jack nudged the carrot into the blond's hand with his staff. Kristoff looked at it, then at Jack, and mumbled a less-than-grateful thanks. The carrot was encased in solid ice.  
  
"People don't matter as much as you think they do. Sure, they'll come at you with torches and pitchforks, but what can they do? They're just people. Maybe back then, when you were only Jack, you should've been afraid, but you have your ice now. You don't need to be afraid anymore" said the blond grimly. He had a point. Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Kristoff interrupted him before he could. "And I know the only reason you were bold enough to come after me is because you knew you had a weapon now. You're right. The ice  _is_  a blessing."  
  
Kristoff raised a single finger, cutting off Jack yet again. "But Elian is also right. It is also a curse. With gods like ours, who needs demons?" The blond let out a hearty laugh. "You don't have to be afraid anymore. You don't have to keep your distance anymore. You two, Elian and you both could saunter into the nearby village and wield your ice, and strike fear into their hearts. Sure, the sun priests might be problematic for a little while, but they have nothing to bear against your ice."  
  
"They would be no more than a candle-flame against the tempestous fury of winter. Imagine that, Jack Frost, you and young Elian Calland, going into a town, wielding the full wrath of winter, making those people that made your life a living hell cower in fear." Jack felt the air around him grow colder and colder as Kristoff spoke. A fire was in the blond's eyes, a genuine malice in his voice and in the toothy grin that graced his face. The brunet had to admit, the prospect was enticing.   
  
"You, Elian Calland and Jack Frost, Kings of Winter... Lords of Frost... Thanes of Ice... Conquerors of Spring... Vanquisher of Summer... Heralded by Fall... You could rule! When that day comes, you will have no more to fear."   
  
"You would have no more to fear, only, then, it will be  _you_  that is feared."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, y'all! I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter. I know it may have gotten a bit more light-hearted towards the end, but believe me, there is shit that's about to take place next week.
> 
> I wanna know what you think so far! How'd you like Kristoff's introduction? And what was it that happened between Jack and Elian that fateful sunrise? Do you think Kristoff's a villain in this story of some sort?
> 
> Apart from that though, I want to know if you people would like to hear -- read -- the story of Kyle and Nyko, Jack's adoptive parents. I have an entire story planned out for them, and as it stands, the working title is _I Dream of Autumn_ and it's every bit as twisted if not more than this one is panning out to be.
> 
> In any case, again, thanks for reading! Leave kudos and comments! I want to hear from you!
> 
> But as always, here's a preview of next week!
> 
> _A cruel smirk appeared on Elian's face._
> 
> _"Beg for my forgiveness" said the blond, tilting his head forward so that his eyes might be shaded from the light, giving him a fearsome expression. It was an expression that many had now learned to fear, one twisted by ire and hatred._
> 
> _The man spat. "I would rather die than simper before a tyrant." The smile that graced Elian's face was terrifying. For a moment, the man's eyes widened in terror, but nothing outwardly visible happened. Jack looked at Elian in confusion._
> 
> _Then, the man whispered "monster!" before falling over, blood trickling from his mouth and nose._


	10. The Wrath of Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Trigger warnings for all of you who do not like non-consensual sex in this chapter.
> 
> As for everyone else. I make no apologies. Steel yourselves. Shit is about to hit the fan.

_Jack reclined in a fairly comfortable chair, though throne would have been a better word to describe it. His ass was caressed by the softest velvet that would have to be replaced sooner rather than later. Such textiles were not meant for being on ice for a very long time. Though it was still soft and tender and comfortable, it was beginning to degrade. He looked over to the side and sitting on a similar throne of ice as himself was Elian.  
  
The thrones were high-backed, and jagged, with seven sharp rays of ice protruding from their peaks. They seemed to almost flow out of the floor which was itself made of ice. Elian was leaning on one arm, regarding Jack with a level gaze. "What court matters do we have to attend to, today?" asked the blond. Jack shook his head and shrugged. He knew, but he wanted the blond to see what he'd done for his partner.  
  
Jack signalled with two fingers to the frozen knights that stood by the door to the throne room. Bring him in, he beckoned. Elian looked at the brunet in surprise and straightened into proper posture. The doors swung open with a dull boom, fitting for the immense slabs of ice that they were.  
  
Tristan was brought in, though neither the brunet nor the blond knew his name. They simply knew him by face, and his was one that they both despised. Jack for the man's attempt on Elian's life, and Elian, for the fact that this man and his group managed to almost kill him if not for Jack's timely appearance.  
  
The ragged-looking man looked up at the two kings, eyes drooping with weariness, but burning with intense anger and loathing. "To what do I owe the pleasure, your majesties?" the man spat out, sarcasm practically dripping from the words that spilled forth from his mouth. A cruel smirk appeared on Elian's face.  
  
"Beg for my forgiveness" said the blond, tilting his head forward so that his eyes might be shaded from the light, giving him a fearsome expression. It was an expression that many had now learned to fear, one twisted by ire and hatred for any and all that had dared cause or even wish the two rulers harm.   
  
The man spat. "I would rather die than simper before a tyrant." The smile that graced Elian's face was terrifying. For a moment, the man's eyes widened in terror, but nothing outwardly visible happened. Jack looked at Elian in confusion. This was not like Elian's normal executions, there were no pillars of ice, no spears that would impale the culprit. Nothing.  
  
Then, the man whispered "monster!" before falling over, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. The blood instantly froze, and Jack watched with amusement as large red spikes began to poke out of Tristan's body, splitting the skin along the lines of the veins and arteries. It was gruesome.  
  
Elian laughed. No, cackled. The sheer wickedness of the laugh made Jack's blood run colder than it normally did. _  
  
Jack shuddered and shook his head, clearing it of the terrifying vision. Kristoff was still sitting where he'd been when Jack's mind's eye was stolen away by the fantastical waking nightmare that he'd just had. The blond was also playing his lute. The brunet did a double-take when he realized what Kristoff was doing with the intsrument that had mere moments ago been snapped in half and thrown at his head. "H-how? What?"  
  
"Oh. I just thought I'd go see if there was any chance the lute had magically repaired itself, and lo and behold, it had!" said Kristoff with a smile. His eyes spoke volumes more than the innocent cheer in his voice, however, and it struck Jack right into the core of his person. "So I take it you saw that too, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes, I did, but how...?" Kristoff raised a finger to stop Jack again. Why did he stop whenever Kristoff told him to? The brunet berated himself, telling his mouth in no uncertain terms that he was going to keep speaking the next time it happened.  
  
"If I knew you were malicious, or evil, even, I would never have let you come near me and Sven. You have the power of ice now, the grace of the moon... You have the strength to bring entire kingdoms to their knees, to make even the bravest men cower before your wrath." Jack looked at his hands and at the staff that was sitting across his thighs. Frost was embedded in the coarse wood of the crook, and it didn't seem to want to melt at all. He and Elian both did have immense powers, it seemed. However, where Elian had taken to his powers like a whale to molten rock, Jack had taken to his like a swan to a pond.  
  
"But that's not what you want is it? Neither you nor young Elian want to be feared. What you want is to be accepted." Kristoff smiled at Jack. "That's what we all want, but for that to happen, the world has to change... and change  _is_  what it  _will_  do" said Kristoff with such conviction, Jack was almost convinced that the odd blond had had a premonition, a vision of the future that was yet to come. The certainty in Kristoff's voice sent chills down the farmboy's spine, he definitely hoped the blond was right.  
  
Kristoff looked down and strummed his lute, frowning and adjusting one of the knobs before looking back up at Jack and leveling a meaningful gaze at him. "And Jack? You and Elian both have now stirred up the winds of change. They howl through the land, tearing down the precepts of an older age, and letting new ones, better ones, be built." As if on cue, a strong breeze tore through the trees, sending Kristoff's long hair ruffling in the wind. The blond tossed his head back to get his unruly hair in check.  
  
"There is always a price for anything, and I urge you and the object of your infatuation--" Jack blushed. "--to leave now. A storm comes this way, the likes of which, this land has never seen before." The bard rose with a final strum to his lute. He walked over to Jack and stretched out his hand to the brunet. The farmlad grabbed it and pulled himself up.  
  
"Who are you? What are you? What was that vision? How do you know all these things?" Jack asked the questions rapidly, one after the other. Kristoff laughed and raised his lute to Jack's face.  
  
"I am a bard, to those with eyes. To those who  _see_ , to those who  _know_ \--" Kristoff pointed to a symbol on the lute. A circle with three horns, the symbol of the old gods, and a six-pointed star in the middle. "--I am one who is versed in magecraft. As for that vision, well, I am a bard, and I have tales to tell. What better way to use my magecraft than to allow those who listen to see?"  
  
"I... I don't understand. Are you a warlock? How did you know all these things about Elian and I?" Jack asked, leaning on his staff. He was curious, and though he knew he had to find the herbs for Elian, they were not as necessary now as they were a few days ago, he could afford a little delay.  
  
"My dear young Vampir, wizards, warlocks, and sorcerors are different from us mages. We do not use magic in the sense that we manipulate energy, or that we form pacts with spirits as sorcerors do... We mages manipulate chance." Kristoff held his hand out in front of Jack. The brunet made to place his own in Kristoff's hand, but the blond waved it away. "There is a miniscule chance that the air above my hand could spontaneously burst into flames, yes?" Jack nodded. It was impossible, truthfully, thought the farmlad.   
  
"As a mage, I can make that chance incredibly high, and voila!" said the blond with a flourish as a tongue of fire sputtered into existence, hovering about an inch from his palm. Jack looked at Kristoff's face and saw the lines there deepen. He looked... older, even if it was just a little. "You're right. I do look older. There is always a price for everything, Jack. For us mages, it's that the chance we die after we cast spells also increases with the power of the spell. Sometimes, it's just a little bit more age on our shoulders, but I've heard that some who've gotten severely unlucky have turned to dust from simply doing what I've just done."  
  
"As for how I know everything about you, I don't. I'm good at guessing, and I use my magecraft to come up with the most likely guess. It's simple enough that the spell can feed off of the energy I get from food, but other complicated spells like this one are another matter entirely." Jack looked at Kristoff, slack-jawed. Elian's powers were one thing, but the bard's were difficult to comprehend. At the very least, Elian's powers did not make him inexorably march to death every time he used them.  
  
Kristoff took Jack's hands in his own and grinned at the brunet. "Now, forgive me for what I'm about to do because I'm about to strike about five more years off of my life... Don't feel guilty, I want to help." The blond closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "There. Elian's feet should be better now... There's always a  _chance_  the spell didn't work--" said Kristoff, grinning and nudging Jack with his elbow. "--but hey, what can you do? It's always a gamble with these powers of mine."  
  
"Heed my warning, Jack Frost, the storm is coming and you do not want to be caught in it." said the bard, letting go of Jack's hand with a final smile and jumping onto Sven. "You and I will meet again someday, I know it. Until then, may fortune smile upon you. I know it does on me."  
  
As the two, reindeer and rider, gently trotted away from the brunet, he bent down to pick up the burlap sack that was by his feet. Was. It was gone... and Kristoff was eating a carrot from it. "HEY! My carrots!" yelled Jack, accidentally shooting another bolt of ice from his balled-up fist. The bolt of frost lightning hit an unfortunate magpie flying in the vicinity, dropping it dead to the ground. Both Kristoff's and Sven's heads snapped back to stare at the brunet with identical deer-in-headlights looks before they galloped off. Jack couldn't help but shake his head. Those two were strange.  
  
Jack turned around to walk back to the farmhouse, carrot-less and herbs-less. Before he was more than twenty paces back out of the treeline, two men appeared to either side of him. "Who are you?" he demanded, pointing his crook threateningly at both of them. "Why are you here? This is my land. Get off it!" In the shade of the trees, and with his mind still swimming from what Kristoff had shown and told him, Jack was unable to at first recognize the men.  
  
The two men raised their hands and backed off. "We just want to know if you've seen a blond fag, about yea tall..." said the man, raising his hand to about his eye-level. "With the powers of winter." Once Jack got a better look at the men's faces, he recognized them as Elian's pursuers. Gods be good, they had been found. He turned tail to run, only to collide with Tristan who then delivered a sharp blow to the back of the brunet's neck.  
  
Jack whispered "Elian" before his world went black.  
  
"Alright men, I think we've found our winterchild." said Tristan bitterly before he gestured to the farmhouse on the other side of the treeline.  
  
\---  
  
Elian heard a scuffle downstairs... Jack was back. He'd felt a strange sensation on his feet just a few minutes past. It was almost as though the skin was knitting together and everything was healing faster than normal. He'd gingerly peeled off the bandages and the leaf and brushed off the poultice with his hands only to discover that the soles of his feet were better than they had ever been. They almost felt like the soles of a babe.  
  
The blond had been examining the stones on the dresser, picking them up one by one and wondering what they meant, when he heard the ruckus downstairs. "Oi winterchild" came the mocking sing-song voice that made Elian's blood ran cold. "Don't you dare try and escape, or your friend gets it." They found him. How did they find him? And now they had Jack... This was why he wanted to leave. He didn't want Jack to get involved in the conflict.  
  
"Where are you, winterchild?" called out one of the men with Tristan, the one holding a blade to the unconscious Jack's throat. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" taunted the man. "Ugh. That is disgusting." said the man, pointing to the painting of Jack's fathers. Tristan saw it and a lump formed in his throat. Whatever it was that they were doing, it didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to come after the winterchild when everything that had happened was Tristan's fault, not the innocent blond's. Nor did it feel right that they were involving this otherwise innocent farmlad in their quest for vengeance.  
  
The two men in the painting were locked in a passionate kiss, a passionate embrace. Tristan could feel the love radiating from them. He averted his gaze. He felt ashamed. That was the kind of love that he'd spurned from Rein... He almost envied it of the redhead. His heart skipped a few beats when he heard the loud ripping of canvas. The man had taken the blade to the painting, mouthing obscenities at it the whole while.  
  
Tristan watched the painting, in tatters, swing on its peg, its frame still intact. "Let's get this over with" said Tristan with a low voice. There was no turning back. If he told the men to turn back, they would call him fag-lover and probably end him as well. What a mess he'd made for himself, lamented the brunet as they climbed the stairs to the second floor after combing the first.  
  
They came upon Elian hiding in the first room they searched on the second storey of the house. An angry dog leaped out at them, snarling and nearly managing to bite one of the men. With all his might the man kicked and sent Glaise flying into the opposite wall. The dog whined and fell limp to the floor. "Glaise!" screamed Elian, making as though to run for the dog.  
  
The blond stopped in his tracks when the man carrying Jack hefted the blade threateningly and said to the blond "Don't move, and don't even use your ice, or else he dies." Elian's eyes darted wildly between Glaise, Jack, and the man supporting the brunet. He went back and forth for a moment or two before letting his arms fall to his side in resignation. "Good fag. It's pretty, innit, Gav?" said the man, looking at his other companion and cocking his head towards Elian.  
  
Gav walked towards the blond and cupped his chin in his hands. "Aye. The way you talked about him, Tristan, made me and Reg here think he was a hideous witch. No, the cocksucker's pretty. Shame he has tackle like ours..." Gav grabbed his crotch and waggled it lasciviously at Elian. "It'd have made a good bitch, borne me pretty children." Elian trembled and tried to shrink away from the touch. The other man, Reg, placed the blade on the skin of Jack's neck, and the blond forced himself to remain still for the sake of the brunet.  
  
Tristan merely watched in horror at what was taking place. If he didn't know better, the two were planning on... No. He was not going to allow it. "What are you two, fags?" he spat. "Whatever it is you're planning, don't even think about it. We kill him and then we leave. That's all we came here for." Tristan took a step forward, but Reg took out a dagger and held it to Jack's neck while he took the blade and pointed it threateningly at Tristan.  
  
"That's all  _you_  came here for" said Reg, with a sinister, lecherous smile on his face. It sent shivers up Tristan's back and made his own blood run cold. "You're a fag, aren't you, boy?" asked the man holding Jack captive, threateningly raising the dagger to the farmboy's exposed neck to force Elian to answer. The blond nodded slowly, tears welling in his eyes despite the hand on his chin forcing him to look up at the man named Gav.  
  
"See, Tristan? I bet he loves to take it up the arse." Elian's eyes bugged out. He didn't want to get fucked by these men. They were filthy, and they were going to kill him. "I bet you he let this kid fuck him up the arse whenever he could get it up." Gav took Elian's hand and put it on his crotch, forcing the blond to caress his stiffening member. Elian made to tighten his grip, but all it took for him to do as he was being forced to was a tut-tut from Reg.  
  
"Look at that, he likes it." Elian felt absolutely disgusted and filthy. If he survived, he might have to burn his hand off. The brothels were one thing, he'd done that to survive. Now, he was going to be raped, plain and simple. "Like that, fag? Like the feeling of a real man's cock in your hands? Bet it's nothing like yours. Feel that?" Gav took Elian's hand and ran it all along his hard length. "I've got a big one. I bet yours is a useless little stub, eh, fag?" Blinking back tears, Elian nodded slowly. He didn't like what he was being forced to do, but he didn't want Jack to get hurt.  
  
"On the bed. Bend over" commanded the man, smacking the blond on the ass. Elian meekly did as he was commanded. He wanted to rebel, to fight against them, but it would probably kill Jack if he did so. Tears leaked from the corners of Elian's eyes, but no matter how he did not like the situation, there was no getting out of it, and it was Jack that was truly important here. The men could kill the blond, they could rape him, make him feel like the filthiest whore in all the land, but they could not hurt Jack. Jack was innocent, and kind and did not deserve to be involved in the divine retribution for Elian's mistakes.  
  
"Don't you dare" snarled Tristan, taking a step towards Elian. Why did he feel so strongly about this? It wasn't right. It wasn't right. They were here for revenge, not for fucking, and not for torture. A life for a life, that was their objective, nothing more. Reg threw his arm out, nicking Tristan with the blade. As the jet-haired man stared at the trickle of blood that was running down his arm, he felt the cold steel of the blade against the fabric of his tunic.  
  
"Fuck off, Tristan. You fucked a prime piece of ass the other night. You can shut your mouth" said Reg. "If fucking it makes us fags, then it only makes us as much fags as you are." The man shoved Jack at Tristan, forcing the brunet to the floor. Reg stood over them, threateningly, with both curved blade and dagger. Tristan could do nothing. He did not want to die. He watched, seething, as Gav had his way with the blond.  
  
Elian whimpered as he felt the cool metal of a dagger blade sliced through his clothes. Those clothes were the ones he'd worn for well over three months now. They were precious to him, because they were all that protected him from being naked and vulnerable in his travels. As precious as the clothing was to Elian, the old, worn linen was no match for the blade, and the tatters of his clothes fell around him as his bare skin was exposed to the air.   
  
Rough calloused hands grabbed the globes of Elian's buttocks, kneading them with the sort of motion that one would expect from a pervert. The blond shuddered, but the man slapped him on the ass. He stopped. "Oi look, Gav. Fucker's clean." The voice was unexpected. Elian looked to the side and noticed that Gav had taken Reg's place guarding Tristan and Jack.   
  
Reg had expected Elian to be well bred, and still-leaking, but as it turned out that was not the case. "All the better. I wanna hear you scream when I fuck you, and then I'll hear you scream when I kill you." Elian trembled, still crying. He wanted to be rebellious, wanted to not do what they said, but doing so would endanger Jack, and he did not want that to happen.   
  
As much as he did not want anything of what was going on, his body was rebellious, knowing only animalistic pleasure. He steeled himself against the shiver of pleasure that ran down his spine when Reg's finger brushed against his rosebud. He felt his hole instinctively pulse, pushing out then pulling back in, as though trying to suck the finger into it. Vard had taught him the pleasure of intimacy, and here, his body was being traitorous, knowing only the pleasure, but nothing of the context.  
  
Reg jumped on the bed, thrusting once or twice into Elian's rear despite the clothing that still prevented any sort of penetration. Elian shuddered, and more tears fell from his face. Elian felt the bed shake as the man hastily unlaced his breeches and drew his hard and leaking cock from its confines. Gav walked over to where Tristan was sitting on the floor under Jack, dazed, and made sure that Jack was bound and gagged just in case he woke up while they were busy raping Elian.   
  
Elian promised himself he would not scream, but that promise quickly dissolved when almost angrily, Reg shoved his cock raw into Elian's hole. The blond screamed, leaving his throat raw and scratchy from the sheer volume of his outcry. A great cacophony of caws and fluttering wings erupted as the woods around the house discharged all its birds. Elian felt as though he was being torn apart by the large cock that had been so thoughtlessly jammed into his ass without loosening or grease. Before Elian could adjust, Reg pulled his entire cock out and then shoved it back in.  
  
Elian screamed again, tears falling freely from his eyes. He sobbed, his entire body shaking from the burning pain that was radiating from his abused ass. He bit the bed as it happened again. And again. And again. He could feel something inside of him tearing, blood flowing freely as his ass was mercilessly pounded. His body shook with sobs and trembles and ragged breaths that he barely managed to draw as the pain was so all-encompassing that he almost forgot how to breathe. His arms gave way, and he lay on the bed with his chest to the sheets. His hands clutched the bed covers, balling into fists even as he bit harder into the bed, trying to make the pain more bearable. His traitor cock, though, was beginning to get hard.  
  
"Look, Reg, fucker's getting hard. He likes this." said Gav. The man laughed. Reg chuckled and then spat on Elian's back as he continued roughly pistoning in and out of the blond, trying to cause as much discomfort and pain as he could to Elian. The blond continued sobbing, the searing pain in his ass giving way to very little pleasure despite his cock rising in response to the sex. The blond cried out when Reg reached under him and pulled at his sack, squeezing them painfully, and causing the rest of Elian's body to go slack from the pain.  
  
 _"For Jack"_  he whispered under his breath to himself.  _"For Jack."_  He screamed when Reg shoved his entire cock down to the hilt into Elian.  _"For Jack."_  He whimpered when he felt the hand slap against his ass, making him feel like a dirty whore. He knew what dirty whores were, he'd worked in brothels. _"For Jack."_  The litany continued, with every cry, with every sob, with every ragged breath, with every searing pain that accompanied Reg's thrusts...  _For Jack. For Jack. For Jack._  
  
"Oi Reg. My turn" said Gav, trying to push Reg off of Elian, but the other man pushed back. Elian sighed in relief, as mercifully, the man had let go of his sack. It was short-lived, as with a salacious grin, Reg grabbed not only his nuts but also his hard cock, almost crushing them in the man's iron grip. Reg hadn't cum yet, and he wasn't about to give up the pleasure of the blond's ass. It was tight, and warm, and now slick with blood and pre-come. At least faggots were good for one thing, after a week of not being able to spill his seed.  
  
"Use the other one." Gav frowned at Reg but walked over to Tristan, not wanting to antagonize the one that carried the blade. The man easily picked up Jack and when Tristan tried to stop him, backhanded their once-leader. Dazed from the force of the blow, Tristan fell to the floor, unable to get up for a good long while. Elian was too busy trying to endure the pain, repeating the 'for Jack' mantra for him to realize what was going on.  
  
Elian willed his ice to his abused hole to stifle the flames of pain that were searing his entire body that radiated from it. He whimpered again when Reg bottomed out in him. He felt the man on top of him start to pump into him more erratically, with more speed, more urgency. Elian squirmed and writhed, and tried to worm his way out from under Reg, but the man was too heavy, and he was too weak from the pain, that it was to no avail. He didn't want it inside him. Not this filth. No. No. No. He whimpered and tried to wriggle free, but the man held him firmly in place by his hips.  
  
It wasn't long before Reg pulled out fully again and impaled Elian fully onto his cock. Reg sighed in relief as he allowed his cock to pulse and spurt his seed into the blond. He wasn't done yet. No. He had been unable to spill his seed for a week. He was not about to be satisfied with just one load spewed. Elian went slack underneath Reg when the other man came inside him. He felt soiled. Dirty. Used. He felt like he was a whore.  
  
It wasn't until he felt another weight on the bed that Elian saw Jack, trussed up and slowly regaining consciousness, being forced down to the sheets in front of him. Elian's eyes went wide with shock and protestation. They had promised that no harm would come to Jack if he cooperated. No harm. Now Jack was facing the same fate that Elian was having to endure. Unacceptable. Elian felt such anger and hatred grow in him as he had never before deigned to imagine. Jack's now-blue eyes looked back at him with confusion, and then anger as the brunet realized what was being done to Elian.  
  
The blade was passed over the two young men, and Gav took it, slicing off Jack's clothes underneath the ropes and pulling down the farmboy's breeches, exposing his supple buttocks and virginal pink rosebud. Jack had seen his parents naked, and unlike them, he was completely hairless from the chin down. Gav whistled. "This one's just as good, Reg. Hell, it looks better than a fucking pussy." laughed the man derisively as he kneaded Jack's buttocks.   
  
Tristan only watched from nearby with eyes wide in shock and repulsion as Elian was being raped, and Jack was being prepared for the same. He did nothing but watch, knowing that if he even dared to try and stop the two, that the boys would face a quick and gruesome demise, and that he would soon follow them. From the sheer hunger in the lustful gazes and sounds that the men made, Tristan was sure that even if the boys were dead, they would still fuck them. Reg and Gav had no morals, only an appetite for pain and brutality, it seemed.  
  
Jack's eyes went wide in fear and met Elian's own teary ones when he felt the blunt end of the cock at his hole. He whimpered when he felt the dagger blade cut into his skin, as the warm blood flowed from the open wound. Elian's eyes went blank at the smell of Jack's blood. The blond's trembling vanished. The entire world fell silent save for Jack's whimpers as Gav carved his name into Jack's skin, and the squishing of Reg's cum-slicked cock as it continued to slide in and out of Elian's abused hole with impunity.  
  
"You said you wouldn't hurt him" said Elian, voice sounding both young and afraid and ancient and furious at the same time. His voice was deeper and louder than anything Jack had heard before, more menacing, more intimidating. It almost seemed as though there were two people talking, no, a hundred. Jack whimpered when he felt the blade against his skin grow cold beyond fathoming, sealing the wound that had just been carved shut. He felt the blade vibrate against his skin, warping before finally shattering into a fine dust that blew away in the biting gale that began to emanate from Elian.  
  
"Do not touch him." Terrified, Reg pulled out of Elian and flipped the blond over to strangle him. Red marks appeared on Elian's neck where Reg tried in vain to strangle the air out of the blond's motionless, seemingly-lifeless body. The blond looked up at Reg with his empty eyes, devoid of any emotion, driven blank by the intense fury and protectiveness that had washed through him. The absolute power of the Coldsnap had been awakened, and it was a terrifying sight to behold. In his corner, Tristan cowered from the voice that emanated from Elian. It was almost as though the gods were speaking through him. "Do not touch him." The voice emanated from Elian despite his lips not moving, save for to twist into a sinister grin.  
  
Gav screamed. It was a bloodcurdling scream that made Jack bring his hands to his ears and whimper in terror. Reg's eyes whipped up towards the man, and watched in horror as the Gav's cock began to freeze over, ice with no rhyme or reason save for savage patterns and cracks began to cover its shaft and his stones. Gav, in a panic, grabbed his cock, only to make it shatter into pieces in his hands, blood spurting freely from the hole in his groin that it left. There was no pain, as the area had been numbed by the utter cold. The sheer horror of losing his manhood made Gav nearly pass out, but he couldn't. He couldn't lose consciousness. No matter how hard his body tried to shut down, to spare him from the shock, it would not obey.  
  
Jack cowered from Elian's power, trying to bury himself further into the bed. The cold zephyr, the harsh gale, the wrath of a blizzard itself did not touch him. Instead, a cool, calming breeze wafted over his bare skin, soothing his body where the ropes that bound him had bitten into his skin. At some point the ropes themselves froze and shattered. Jack remained motionless despite having been freed from bondage, afraid for his life.   
  
Reg's cock began to freeze as well, discordant ice spiderwebbing across its length and penetrating into the flesh. The man screamed in pain and terror, he was not spared from the prior as his friend had been. He dropped Elian in the process as he scrambled away to try and save his manhood even as ice wrapped around his nuts and made them feel numb and heavy.   
  
Reg felt intense pain as the cold burrowed deeper into him. White spikes exploded from the man's precious jewels, the cum that had built up there freezing and expanding and shattering Reg's manhood. Elian laughed a bone-chilling, heart-stopping laugh that froze the men in place, staring at him with utter terror. Tristan shook himself from the daze he was in and ran out of the room and down the stairs. There was no sense to throw away his life now. No sense whatsoever. He would not die that way, by losing his manhood, his pride. He would die that day, yes, but not before he tried to make amends to Rein.  
  
There was no sense to try and take vengeance when all the winterchild had truly done was free him from his bitch of a wife, and give him a chance to have a good life with his daughter and perhaps restore the bond he'd fostered so long ago with the redheaded man that he'd only recently found out loved him... He'd thrown that chance away in his hotheadedness, rashness and pride. The winterchild had given him the chance to have a lover that would love him in the way he wished his wife would. He'd thrown that chance away. Now, the winterchild had saved him from his two mad companions, given him a chance to make amends, and he was not about to throw it away.  
  
Elian rose from the bed slowly, turning about some unseen fulcrum in the air, supported by the howling winds as they whipped about the room. Shards of ice materialized in the air, tearing the men's remaining clothes to shreds, and cutting open their skins in shallow, painful lacerations. Both men, so confident in their swaggering and so menacing in their manner, were now simpering in front of winter's wrath, their eyes streaming with tears from the pure agony that they were experiencing. Their eyes were streaming with water for a very short time. The shards of ice also shredded the sensitive tissue there, and the men tried to scream in agony, but their throats would not allow them.  
  
Ice began to climb from the soles of their feet up their bodies, every cell freezing and dying with the inexorable advance of the creeping death. Every inch of their bodies screamed in exquisite, agonizing pain. All the ice avoided were the important organs, for Elian intended to inflict as much pain on the two villainous bastards as he could while keeping them alive. He would make them pay for hurting him, for hurting Jack. He would make them  _pay_. Slowly the ice climbed their bodies, up their necks, their faces...  
  
Only then, their faces contorted in their dying pains, did Elian allow the ice to finally kill the men, surging through every vein and passage of their bodies. Balling his hands into fists, cracks, vicious, wide, and chaotic raced through the frozen statues. Elian pulled his fingers tighter. The cracks spread even more, spiderwebbing over the skin and below. Elian released his hands and instantly the men shattered into countless shards of ice that flew out of the window, carried by the wind, before falling on the rolling hills near the farmstead.  
  
"Elian?" whispered Jack, naked and shivering from the cold. He reached out to the blond, but was repelled by a strong wind that then died, dropping Elian unceremoniously in a crumpled heap on the bed, cum and blood leaking out of his abused ass. "Elian!" The blond was unconscious, and only barely breathing. Jack crawled over to the blond, and cradled him in his arms.  
  
"Elian..." Jack brought Elian's head to his chest, embracing him tightly, and putting his own head right next to the blond's. "Elian... you saved me..." He wept into the blond's hair.  
  
"You saved me..." Jack whispered, rocking back and forth with Elian's limp body.  
  
\---  
  
Tristan rode his horse into the ground. There was no sense trying to save the animal. He had to get back to the town, maybe save Rein if he could. Maybe they could start a new life in the village, or embark on a journey to find their old home again. Their town had roads, but Tristan was not aware where they led, or where they came from. Merchants had been few and far in between, and he had been far too preoccupied with his daughter and his own farmstead to care what they brought. It was his bitch wife's duty to take Liana to buy the things she wanted from them.  
  
Tristan rode fast as the wind that streamed by alongside him. He guided his horse in the direction he believed the town to be, the image of his companions and their slow agonizing deaths remained in Tristan's head. Gods, he was going to have nightmares about that for the rest of his life. The vision had been horrible, blood spurting from the gaping wounds that had once been their manhoods. Tristan leaned over the horse and vomited, narrowly avoiding a rapidly approaching tree-trunk as he wiped the puke that clung to his chin.  
  
He rode hard and fast through the night, arriving at the village as the moon was low over the horizon, in the darkest hours of the dawn, only to find everyone gathered in the village square. He jumped off of his horse and walked over slowly to where everyone was gathered. What was going on? He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, an ominous ringing in his ears. Gods... What had he done?  
  
Tristan heard a dull boom as the doors to the convent opened to the dark of night. The heavy wood that made them slamming against the solid stone walls. A deep haunting chant in a tongue unknown to the brunet drifted through the night air, echoed by the townspeople. The hymn was unfamiliar, alien, and almost sinister, to Tristan's ears. He dreaded what was going on. His blood ran cold when he saw what was in the middle of the congregation. A stake.  
  
A stake. It was piled high with sticks and dry grass, and wood. Kindling and fuel. The fire would be a big one if it was lit. Someone was getting burned at the stake.  _A stake._  Tristan raised his hand to his mouth, blinking back tears as he realized who might be lined up to die that night. Though it had never been done in the town he lived in, he remembered from the one service of the sun priests that he had attended that the punishment for a man loving other men was burning at the stake.  
  
The haunting strains of the chant continued to drift through the silence of the hours before dawn, striking fear into Tristan's heart with every damnable word. He elbowed his way through the crowd, making his way to just short of the clearing of people around the stake. From the convent, a procession of men wearing black robes adorned with silver circlets was preceded by two large men with a naked figure being supported between them. The figure had a pointed hood over his face, emblazoned with the symbol of the sun priests.  
  
The man was brought to the stake and tied up as more wood was taken from a nearby mound and piled on top of him. A priest stood beside the man by the dais, and another man in black robes was nearby, carrying a torch. The man carrying the torch seemed to almost be unstable on his feet, swaying slightly back and forth. The priest regarded the crowd, and held out his hands. "Brothers and sisters."  
  
"Today we gather to witness the purgation of sins..." The priest began to walk around the platform, raising a large vessel that was handed to him by one of the burly men. He tipped the vessel on its side and clear oil spilled out, onto the naked man and the wood for the fire. "In this darkness before the suns rise, the moon's strength is greatest."  
  
"May the Scorn of the Moon be merciful upon us" whispered the townspeople in unison, before a hushed silence fell. The only sound was that of the dripping oil and the priest walking on the platform. "May the Scorn of the Moon be merciful upon us" repeated the townspeople, louder, this time. The moon seemed to shine brighter. "May the Scorn of the Moon be merciful upon us." The moon's light, normally gentle and milky, glimmered and turned almost cruel.  
  
"This man, Rennðoch, son of fire, has been found guilty of abominable deviance, of intimacy with men." Jeers and boos rose from the crowd. Tristan was frozen in place. It was just as he'd feared. He slipped his hand into his pocket. "With fire, we cleanse his body and set free his soul from the prison of the flesh. May the Scorn of the Moon cast judgment on him as he deserves" intoned the priest as he removed the hood, revealing Rein's unmistakeable mop of red hair, and descended from the platform as the torch was struck alight.  
  
Time seemed to slow down for Tristan as the spark flew and ignited the torch, shedding flickering light around the stake. "No..." Tristan whispered. His fingers fumbled around in his pocket and found it. That little flower he'd picked up a while ago. He'd meant to force-feed it to the winterchild and leave, but Reg and Gav had turned everything on its head. He slipped the flower between his lips and swallowed it as he pushed over the rest of the townspeople in front of him and ran up the platform and embraced Rein, tied to the stake as he was.  
  
The redhead seemed dazed, and his unfocused eyes refused to meet Tristan's. As his throat began to constrict uncomfortably, he heard the loud _whoosh_  of the platform being set on fire. He felt the heat of the flames as they leaped high into the air, urged on by the oil that the priest had generously dribbled onto the pyre. That was what it was to Tristan. A pyre. He would die here, with Rein, the one person save for his daughter that had loved him despite his mistakes. He raised Rein's eyes to his own and planted a final kiss on the redhead's lips just as he found himself unable to breathe any longer. Tristan gagged and gasped and fell to his knees as the fire rose even higher, lapping at his clothes, his flesh, and at the naked form of Rein looming above him, tied securely to the stake.  
  
The brunet would've screamed if he could, but there was no air that would leave him. He was forced to writhe in pain as the fire consumed his flesh and seared his very soul. He reached out towards Rein who was struggling and screaming on the stake as life leached out of the redhead's limbs.  
  
Tristan's head hit the platform and bounced off of the flame-wreathed planks, just as his eyes went blank, and life abandoned him. The last thing he heard as he entered the cold embrace of death was the heart-wrenching scream of pain that emanated from Rein as the fire consumed his torso.  
  
It wasn't long before Rein himself went limp, his final thoughts going to the farewell kiss that Tristan had graced him with. It almost felt resigned. His last thoughts before the pain prevented any more, were apologies to Tristan. Apologies for not trying harder. For not fighting better. For raping him.  
  
The fires continued to burn well into the morning, the heat growing more intense by the hour. The fire was so intense that the townspeople had to leave, stifled by the heat and the noxious thick black smoke that poured forth from the raging inferno.  
  
It was midday by the time the final smouldering embers of the stake died. There was no trace of either Rein or Tristan, both men reduced to but ashes strewn amongst detritus and unburnt wood. Theirs was but a brief passion, like the fire that had consumed both of them. Theirs was a love that had died before it had the chance to grow.  
  
Now, both men, one the child of fire, the other, father of a sweet little girl, were but ashes in the wind, drifting to the whim of the gale.  
  
\---  
  
Jack cradled Elian gently in his arms as he rocked back and forth. They'd been locked in that position for well over two hours, Elian not once moving or showing any indication of will, or consciousness for that matter. Gently, the brunet brushed the blond's hair with his hands, whispering tender assurances that all would be alright. The blond had stopped bleeding through his ass, and the cum had stopped leaking out, but Jack did not have the heart to look at the mess that had been made.  
  
Whatever it was that had been carved into the flesh near the top of Jack's ass, almost felt like a distant thing, as though it wasn't really on him. The pain, and the blood had stopped flowing, almost as though it had been cauterized. Jack knew the wound was still open, though, he could feel it. There was no time to worry about himself, in any case, as Elian needed help. Any help.  
  
Jack couldn't bring himself to leave the bed, and the blond alone. The last time that had happened, they'd ended up in this situation, Jack nearly raped, and Elian, abused. There was something new between Jack and the blond, and the brunet could not tell what it was. It was this something that allowed Jack to feel deep inside, almost like a second thought in the back of his mind, that something in Elian had broken when Jack was hurt.  
  
In truth, it was Elian's humanity that had splintered when Jack was wounded. The scent of the blood had driven him mad with fury, and an overwhelming imperative that chased his consciousness from his body, forced away his inhibitions, and let loose the power of the Coldsnap that resided inside him. It was fearsome, but Jack did not know this. All he knew was that Elian was broken, and that no medicinal herbs, no poultice, no ointment, no paste could heal that wound within the blond.  
  
Tender fingers ran across Elian's scalp as Jack cooed to the incapacitated blond. "It's alright. It's alright" he repeated, whispering in the blond's ear. Whether it was to comfort the blond or to comfort himself, Jack did not know, nor did he, at the moment, care. Elian had saved him, and Elian had been violated. His tears ran down his eyes freely, wetting the blond's forehead. For once, the tears didn't turn to ice.  
  
Jack nearly dropped the blond when he heard Glaise's whimper nearby. He set Elian on the sheets gently, making sure that the blond did not end up lying uncomfortably on his ass. "Glaise?" Gods, he'd forgotten about his dog, his loyal, loyal dog. It seemed that the snowy bundle of fur had tried his best to defend Elian from the sinister, lustful, perverse men. "Glaise?" Jack rose from the bed, tears still streaming freely from his eyes.  
  
He bit back a sob as he saw his faithful companion, lying on his side, his back to the wall. There was blood pooled around Glaise's muzzle. Despite his condition, the dog yipped weakly, but happily at Jack. Almost as though to say,  _"I tried, master, I tried, but I'm glad you're safe."_  Jack gently picked Glaise up, unable to stop the sobbing now. He nuzzled the dog, but a high pitched whine escaped its maw as he did. He stopped what he was doing and shivered when Glaise licked him weakly as though in thanks.  
  
"Elian's alright, Glaise. Don't die on me. Don't die on me" begged Jack, trembling. All he got in response was a weak yip, and a lick on his cheek before Glaise went limp in his arms. "No... Please... No..." said the brunet in horror. He brought the dog's mangled body closer to his chest. Though Glaise was severely injured, Jack felt the faintest heartbeat in the faithful, ever-loyal animal.  
  
"I won't let you die, Glaise. I won't let you die..." A cool breeze began drifting in through the window, swirling and dancing around Jack to the music of the brunet's beating heart and that of the dying dog. "I won't let you die..." he whispered. Glaise was too important. If Elian left, Jack was not going to have anyone else but Glaise, and if Glaise died, life would become almost unbearable.  
  
As the wind picked up around him, Jack felt a comfortable and... inexplicably warm chill within him. Familiar. Almost tender. Loving. Beautiful, like the potential for majesty that Elian's ice had possessed. Only, Jack's ice pulsed with something else entirely, it pulsed with life. The brunet mustered all his strength, focusing it into what he hoped would be healing energy. Between his hands appeared a beautiful snowflake that glowed with its own inner light, that pulsed to the slow, weak beating of Glaise's heart.  
  
The snowflake danced with the wind, casting its ever-shifting bluish light around the room. Jack guided it down, bringing it to Glaise's twitching and barely-living form. The snowflake melted into the dog's body, bringing with it the winds that spiralled into the spot where the snowflake landed. With them, the winds brought a flurry of fine ice crystals that glittered as they moved and embedded themselves in Glaise's body.  
  
Jack breathed deeply, he could feel, with his ice, that Glaise's heart had stopped, but that the dog was still very much alive. There was a lot of damage inside Glaise, his heart was weak, and a shard of rib had punctured his lung. The dog's stomach was damaged, and there were multiple broken bones in his body. Jack sighed, but wiped away his tears, blood burning with new determination.  
  
He guided the ice, and willed it to heal Glaise, and watched in awe as the ice did the work for him. He allowed his love for Glaise and his will to guide the ice, instead, as he watched and learned how to do it consciously should he need to do so as well. The ice pulled the shard of rib from Glaise's lung, with crystals forming a lattice over the puncture hole through which the flesh knitted together and repaired itself.  
  
Jack gasped when with he returned to seeing with his eyes, and saw that Glaise was breathing normally now. His mind's eye took over again, and the ice wrapped the dog's heart, in some way making its rhythm return to normal. Torn flesh and punctures were bridged and healed by the ice. The bones returned to their places, and the ice allowed them to remake themselves as well...  
  
When Jack was done with the dog, Glaise was an image of health, and now seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his tail tucked between his legs. The brunet smiled. Glaise would live another day. He let his ice go, and the glow emanating from the dog died down. The brunet placed a tender kiss on Glaise's head. He had come so close to losing his most loyal friend...  
  
Jack clambered back into the bed and called upon his ice again, allowing it to flow into Elian and search the blond's body for anything wrong. There were lesions in his ass, wounds in his hole. Jack called upon the ice to heal the blond, feeling his own energy leech out of him and into Elian. It was remedial, at best, and not nearly as flawless as with Glaise. Regardless, it helped, stopping the bleeding that had apparently continued within Elian despite no blood leaking out.  
  
When Jack opened his eyes, Elian had a different expression on his face, a more peaceful one, compared to the knitted eyebrows, pale skin, flitting eyes, and cold sweat on his brow. Jack caressed Elian's face before letting go of his own consciousness, spent, and utterly exhausted. He wrapped an arm around the blond as he slipped into fitful sleep. What the once-brunet did not realize was that his hair had turned completely white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy reader! How did you like this chapter? I know... It was a bit difficult to write, and re-read as I was editing it. Honestly though, when I edited this chapter, I felt as though the rape of Elian was not as disgusting as it could be, so I rewrote it to be more of that. *shudders*
> 
> Please, please, comment! I want to hear your feedback for this story. I would love to hear from you. I would love to answer questions and hear your opinions. It just helps with the motivation for writing this story. :D
> 
> In any case, as usual, here is next week's chapter teaser:
> 
> _Jack and Elian scrambled to their feet. With a snarl and a determined expression Jack placed himself between the blond and the beast. "Run away!" he yelled at Elian when the beast pounced. Jack entirely expected to die, throat ripped out by the beast..._


	11. The Frosthound

Elian woke up much later. It was the next day, even, feeling weak and tired. The fatigue was no more than skin deep, there was no fever burning behind his eyes, no infection sapping his strength, only tiredness and hunger. Elian realized he was still naked and that Jack had his arms around him, asleep as well. The farmlad was naked too. Jack was naked  _too_. Elian yelped and tried to scramble away from the farmlad, remembering what happened not too long ago. Jack's arm around him felt like the hairy arms of the man, the calloused hands that had violated him. He scrambled away.  
  
Elian touched his hole, expecting to feel it puffed up and bleeding, but it was almost as though nothing had happened. The only evidence was the thick cum that came away with his finger. Disgusted, Elian wiped his finger on the bed. He drew his knees into his chest, and rocked back and forth, whimpering as he remembered the events. As he remembered the searing pain of his violation. Tears rolled down his eyes and cheeks, remembering what had happened to Jack, what he had done after they had hurt the brunet. He was a murderer, a monster, but perhaps he had needed to be that to protect Jack. Nevertheless, it did not allay his protesting conscience.  
  
Elian felt a cold wet muscle lick his tears up. The blond looked up, surprised, and relieved, that Glaise was alright. Well, for a fraction of a second. Elian screamed and despite the fact that he wanted to stay away from the naked farmlad because he felt accountable for what Jack had very nearly experienced at the hands of the men, and because Jack's nakedness reminded him of his rape, the blond almost fell over the farmboy's naked and vulnerable frame.  
  
Jack started awake, brought back to consciousness by the scream and the feeling of Elian falling on top of him. "Elian, what's wro--AAAH!" Jack also screamed when he saw what Elian was frantically trying to get away from, knocking both young men off the bed. A large wolf-like creature jumped onto the bed. Its muscles were strong, and they rippled with every motion. The grace of a predator was evident in the creature's physique. Its fur pelt was snowy, and there was a hint of ice crystals that glimmered underneath the individual strands of hair. Where its breath escaped its maw, glittering frost spiralled into the air.  
  
Jack and Elian scrambled to their feet. With a snarl and a determined expression Jack placed himself between the blond and the beast. "Run away!" he yelled at Elian when the beast pounced. Jack entirely expected to die, throat ripped out by the beast, except he ended up getting attacked by a tongue... all over his face, leaving cold slobber dripping from his hair and cheeks.  
  
"Glaise?" whispered the farmlad, staring into the hound's eyes and finding a familiar light there. "Good gods what's become of you?" Elian made a sound of relieved confusion and knelt beside Jack, taking the wolf's head in his hands and staring into its eyes as well. The blond got a face-full of tongue as a result. Elian grimaced and wiped the slobber off of his face only to get licked again. He sighed, and just held Glaise close instead. There was absolutely no winning against the blessed creature.  
  
"What happened while I was asleep, Jack?" asked Elian slowly, keeping a wary eye on the large wolf that had been a little friendly dog when he was last awake, before... before he was--he could not bring himself to finish the thought. Filthy. That was what he felt like. He could remember the member roughly pistoning in and out of him, the searing pain, the burning humiliation. His traitor cock, standing in appreciation as he was so carelessly fucked.. A strangled yelp was ripped from Elian when Glaise knocked him to the floor with his sheer weight and started licking his face. "H-how did this happen?"  
  
"I don't know, Elian... I... healed him, with my ice..." said the farmlad, sitting on his haunches now that Glaise's weight was off of him. He pushed the wolf off of Elian and stretched out a hand to the blond. The blond looked at Jack's hand but did not take it, shrinking away from it instead, and helping himself to his feet. Glaise whined, as though sensing the plight of the blond. The wolf-dog-thing nudged Elian's calf with its furry head, hoping to provide even the least bit of comfort to him.  
  
"Please don't come near me, Jack..." pleaded the blond. The farmlad fixed him with such a hurt look that Elian took a step back, clasping his hands together, bringing them to his chest, and hunching over, withdrawing into himself. "Don't come near me. I don't want to hurt you" It hurt. Jack couldn't tell why it hurt  _now_  that Elian did not want him anywhere close. He did not understand why the blond would not want him near.  _"I don't want you to hurt me either"_  thought Elian, breathing coming in quick ragged gasps.  
  
Jack wasn't going to be deterred. "Stop it, Elian. You're not a monster." Elian shook his head. Jack was wrong, and Jack was thinking of the wrong reason. The farmlad took a step forward. The blond took one back, refusing to meet Jack's eyes, refusing to even look at him. "You're a killer, but that doesn't make you a monster" whispered the farmlad, taking another forward. Elian tried to move away from Jack more but found his back against the wall, trapped.  
  
"Elian..." Jack said, stepping right up to the blond. "You saved me." He was done trying to understand why Elian did not want to allow himself to be with Jack. The farmlad was done with trying to understand why Elian couldn't let himself be happy. He was done keeping a respectful distance when so recently, fate had very nearly succeeded in tearing them apart. Jack grabbed the sides of Elian's face and brought their lips crashing together to the sound of Glaise's happy, but deeper than usual yipping. Jack was done pretending that there was not a special place in his heart of hearts for the as-yet enigmatic blond, and he would let his lips against Elian's speak as proof of that.  
  
Elian shoved Jack away, gathering all the strength in his arms to force distance between them. The blond broke the kiss with tears in his eyes, resuming his hunched over pose when Jack fell on his ass on the floor. He shuddered despite the earnest innocence and love in Jack's kiss, he could not help but think how horrible it would have been if his rapist had done the same to him. He could almost imagine it. Salacious, thoughtless kissing... foul breath, malice... Elian shuddered. "But I wouldn't have had to if they didn't come after me" said the blond angrily, keeping Jack at arm's length when the farmlad stood and made as though to approach him again. "I should go... You're just going to get hurt if I stay here. I don't want that to happen."  
  
The farmlad looked at the hand on his bare chest, holding him at bay. He frowned at it, but his heart twisted in hurt at the instinctive gesture. Elian shrank away from the hand that Jack extended out to him, trying to extend a measure of trust. "How many men were after you?" asked the farmlad firmly. He didn't want Elian doing this to himself. There was no reason for the blond to despise himself, to blame himself for what almost happened to Jack. It wasn't entirely his fault. The blond shook his head. "How many men?" Jack pressed on.  
  
Elian looked down. "Only this group..." said the blond, rubbing his arm with his hand as he examined his feet. "Only this group that I know of..." he said, trembling where he stood, closing himself off almost entirely from Jack. "I don't see h--" he said, raising his eyes to look at the farmboy. There was a sympathetic look in the platinum's pale blue eyes.   
  
"There were three men. You killed two, and scared the other one off..." Jack took a step towards Elian and the blond shuffled away from him. "They won't come back, and if they do, we can fight them. Elian. I have your ice now too. I don't think you can hurt me even if you wanted to." Jack took another step forward. "Try it, Elian. Try it." He pressed even as Elian tried to get away from him, visibly scared not only of Jack, but of what might happen if he allowed his fear to get the better of him again.  
  
Jack took another step forward, grabbing Elian's wrist gently but firmly. Reluctantly, unwillingly, the blond shot his ice at the farmlad. Vast crackling bolts of ice, tinged slightest red with fear and self-loathing, crackled through the air, creating sheets of ice all around the room. The lightning harmlessly swirled around Jack in a cloud of glittering crystals that eventually evaporated into the air. "You don't need to protect me anymore, Elian..." Jack whispered, letting go of the blond's wrist.   
  
For a good long while there was only silence save for the rustling of the leaves in the wind and the panting of Glaise as he looked up at Elian with a curious and concerned expression. Elian made a pitiful broken sound, hunching over and falling to his knees. He buried his face in his palms, crying and sobbing uncontrollably, sobs wracking his body with tremors that knew no end. Carefully, slowly, Jack knelt beside Elian and gently wrapped his arms around the sobbing blond. After a moment's hesitation, Elian haltingly did the same, burying his face in the crook of Jack's neck, where the farmboy felt the warm trickle of salty tears.  
  
Could it be that he'd finally found a place to be? A safe haven for him, where he would not be driven out, but welcomed? A place where he could make a life, protect it, and be protected? A place where he could, maybe, love and be loved in return? With his arms wound around Jack, Elian could feel the cold chill inside of the farmlad, the telltale sign of the curse that had become a part of Jack. The curse that the simple farmlad, so unassuming at first, had seemed to take to as though it was the most natural thing in the world.   
  
Minutes later, when the tempest of emotions in his heart calmed, Elian caressed the skin underneath Jack's right shoulderblade. That was where the core of the platinum's ice resided. Why it was there, Elian did not know. Under Elian's touch, it pulsed and Jack felt the emanations of power from it. It was almost as though the ice in his body was responding to the Coldsnap in Elian's. He shivered. Elian's touch there felt better than he had expected it to, and he could feel blood rushing to where he least wanted it to rush at that very moment.   
  
The blond's eyes widened, because Jack's ice was so different from his own. Both his own powers and Jack's were brimming with energy and hunger, as though living creatures all on their own save for their lack of physical bodies, but the farmlad's was far more placid and thrummed with a different life entirely. Jack's was gentle and almost sweet, whereas Elian knew that his was raw and savage. Fear gripped the blond as he felt Jack's stiffening member graze his side.  
  
Elian began to struggle against Jack, trying to get away from the erection that was beginning to trigger the phantom hands of his rapist. Jack shushed him, adjusting his hips so that his member would not touch Elian. Eventually, he returned to a flaccid state."I won't hurt you. You won't hurt me. You're safe here..." whispered the farmboy into the blond's ear as Elian let his fear surge through his veins and out through his tears. Jack kept his firm embrace with Elian as the blond shook and shuddered and sobbed, both in apprehension and... in a strange way, a sense of relief.  
  
"You don't have to leave anymore..." whispered Jack. "But I won't stop you if you still want to..." Elian felt the splatter of tears on his own shoulder. "But I want you to know you'll be safe here, no matter what. You'll be safe here with me..." Jack began to tremble too. He didn't want to let Elian go, but if the blond still wanted to, he had no right to stop Elian. He held the blond tighter, rubbing Elian's back and brushing the other boy's hair with his hands.  
  
"I want to believe that, Jack..." said the blond, taking a good long breath of the farmlad's unique scent that was now laced with what seemed to be the smell of clean ice. He pulled away and looked Jack in the eyes. He kept his hands on the other man's waist. "I want to believe that..." whispered the blond with a small sad smile, that said what Elian could not give voice to.  _"But I can't."_  
  
Jack nodded slowly at Elian, understanding what the blond was trying to say. He kissed the blond's forehead, then pulled away, colouring in embarrassment. Elian laughed and did the same to Jack. They looked into each other's eyes, an unspoken pact being formed between them. Jack would try to prove to Elian that he was safe at the farm, and Elian vowed that he would return if he ever had the chance, after he left.  
  
The blond yelped when he felt a cold wet tongue on one of his asscheeks and his hand snapped down with such speed that the smack when it hit Glaise's head resounded in the room, and the thump of Glaise's body on the floor, sent there by the force of the smack and the shock, was just as loud. In Elian's mind's eye, the tongue was Reg's hand, and he felt disgusted, pushing Jack away from him, and scratching his arms as though to clean them. Glaise whined and nudged Elian's calf, worried about the blond. "I-I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." whispered Elian, burying his face in his knees and rocking back and forth.  
  
He could feel the phantom sensation of hands roaming all over his skin, hungrily, salaciously. He groaned when he felt a burning itching sensation in his rosebud, a stinging sensation from the slap on his buttock, the slimy spit of the man dripping on his back. He felt the spurts of cum inside him, the blood leaking from his hole. Elian keened, his mind's eye flaring with a vivid image of the rape. Jack pulled Elian's hands away, only adding to the voracity of the image in the blond's mind, but the farmboy knew he had no other choice. There were long shallow gashes in the blond's arms where he had scratched them to such an extent that he had begun to draw blood.  
  
Making sure that Elian's hands were still securely in his grip, Jack draped his arms around Elian as the blond began to tremble, and ice began to creep over the wall and the floor around him. "Elian... Elian it's just me and Glaise... You're safe..." whispered the farmboy, embracing the blond. He could feel the ice crawling over his arms, but it did not hurt him. Nevertheless, the thickening ice made it difficult to keep balanced on his haunches as he tried to calm Elian down. "Elian..." he cooed. Glaise wriggled his way between Elian's legs and licked the blond's nuts.  
  
"Glaise!" berated Jack, smacking the dog's rump. The licking worked, much to the blond's eventual embarrassment, and snapped Elian out of his episode. The blond gasped, shuddering as the images in his mind's eye dissolved into thin air. Happy that it had worked, Glaise licked Elian's jewels again. The blond looked at Jack, puzzled, and then at Glaise in horror. Elian jumped into Jack's arms, very nearly knocking both of them to the floor, face reddening in shame.  
  
"Glaise!!" yelled the blond, kicking at the wolf-dog, trying to make the hound stay away. "Don't do that!" Elian's face was as red as a tomato, something that Jack was never sure could happen given the blond's natural paleness. The farmlad had to laugh, though he had to admit, a part of him was a bit envious that Glaise had managed to get so intimately close to Elian.  
  
  
*  
  
Jack tried to avert his gaze as Elian pulled on the breeches that he'd pulled from his chest of clothes, but could not resist taking a peek at the blond's pale ass as it slid into the linen pants. The farmboy bit his lip as the rough fabric slowly covered up the supple flesh of the blond's buttocks. Jack himself was pulling breeches on, but was more than a little distracted by the blond's figure that was nude but mere moments ago. He laced up the breeches, adjusting his half-hardness within, and pulled on his tunic before walking over to Elian who was having some trouble fitting one over his head.  
  
The blond had forgotten to untie the strings holding the tunic's collar closed, and was having trouble fitting it over his head. Since Elian had somehow managed to shove it halfway on, getting it stuck on his ears, the blond was having trouble removing it as well. Jack chuckled and undid the ties, allowing the tunic to slide the rest of the way down. His heart fluttered as the cloth settled itself, revealing Elian's beautiful face. The way the slightly larger tunic fell around Elian's body added an aura of innocence to the blond that The farmlad found quite entrancing. Smiling, Jack brushed away some of the blond hair that had fallen over Elian's eyes. It did not escape him that the action had caused the blond to flinch almost imperceptibly.  
  
"How does it all fit?" asked Jack, looking Elian up and down once, more than appreciatively. "I must say, you look better when you're not dressed in rags." The blond blushed and smacked Jack's shoulder with his hand, hesitating ever so slightly before he did so. "I'm just kidding. You look great, though" said Jack, blushing himself before running his fingers through his now-platinum hair.  
  
"It all fits well, Jack. A bit loose around the shoulders and the waist, but I think a little food can help with that" said the blond, smiling genuinely at his benefactor. He couldn't deny, Jack had been fairly cute in a farmboy way when he was a brunet with tawny eyes, but with his platinum hair and soft blue eyes, he almost looked angelic. Noble. Magical, even. Almost an elf, as the old stories described them. All that was left was the boy's pointed ears, which, thankfully, Jack didn't have. For some reason, Elian was quite sure that if Jack ever managed to get pointed ears, he would never stop trying to pull on them. Perhaps it was the child in him, but the adult in him that had just recently been raped found the idea of prolonged and frequent physical contact appalling.  
  
A chill ran up Elian's spine when Glaise licked his foot. Gods. The dog's tongue was cold. In the few hours since he'd woken up, the hound had seemed to grow even larger. The glimmer of frost in its pelt became more prominent... and its tongue got colder. Elian shuddered, remembering his manhood getting licked by the dog. It had been a strange and embarrassing situation and Jack had not helped a bit, falling over laughing for a good two minutes after, with Elian in his arms and Glaise desperately trying to do it again.  
  
"I don't think you can call Glaise a dog anymore..." mused Elian, sitting down beside Jack on the bed and looking at the wolf-like creature that had been an adorable dog earlier. Glaise was still adorable, that much had not changed, but he looked far more intimidating and just downright beautiful. His snow-white pelt had taken on a slight bluish hint, like the purest frost that accompanied the first breaths of winter, and his eyes were near mirrors of Jack's soft gentle blue.  
  
Jack sighed and settled his chin on his hand. "What am I going to do with you, Glaise? You're going to scare the shit out of the sheep." Hearing his name called twice, the... dog bounded towards the two men on the bed and licked Jack's face, making the platinum sputter. "I've been thinking..." He was interrupted by another round of licking. "Stop it! Sit." The dog whined and sat on its haunches, tail wagging madly. "I think we should call him the Frosthound."  
  
"Jack..." Elian started. He wasn't entirely sure where the platinum was going with this. He didn't really understand how full of brevity the farmlad seemed, considering what they had just gone through. Needless to say, there were troubled thoughts going through Jack's mind as well, but having fun was all he knew to do in the face of such trouble. Elian on the other hand, was starting to scratch at his arms again, the faintest feeling of hands grabbing at him beginning to pull itself into his conscious mind once more.  
  
"What? I mean, is it not intimidating? Awe-inspiring?" Jack asked. Elian, had he been entirely paying attention, would've conceded that Jack was making a good point. Indeed, 'Frosthound' sounded like a name right out of the tomes of legends and myth. A moniker worthy of a powerful beast... Instead, Elian was shifting uncomfortably in his spot, trying to shake the feeling of being violated. "Glaise the Frosthound. That's pretty damn intimidating, if you ask me." As if to weigh in, the dog barked happily. Glaise liked the idea. "Besides, I'm Jack Frost. Frosthound implies that he's mine."  
  
Elian shook his head and buried his face in his palms, both to curl up, and to show exasperation at the inane drabble that Jack was going on about. "That last thing you said..." mumbled the blond between his hands. "Makes perfect sense, but is the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Jack grinned sheepishly, but Elian straightened as though struck by a bolt of lightning, eyes wide and hands clasped over his mouth as though he couldn't believe what he had just said. It seemed as though having to deal with the psychological aftermath of being violated so unceremoniously had loosened Elian's tongue quite a bit.  
  
"I-I-I-I mean he's yours so call him whatever you want. He is yours after all..." The blond was blushing madly, his face and his ears a not-so-subtle shade of crimson. For the moment, the horror of having said such a thing to Jack drove away the phantom hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say..." Elian took a look at Jack and made a face at the expression that the farmlad had. The blond's face was twisted in a mixture of mirth and long-buried pain. Jack's expression reminded him so much of his brother.  
  
"Frosthound it is!" Jack said cheerfully before he noticed the look of sadness that crossed Elian's eyes. "Elian? Is everything alright?" asked the platinum, leaning forward on his elbows and looking up at the blond even as Elian tried to look away. Elian skirted ever so slightly away from Jack.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. It's just..." Elian took a deep breath. Was it right that he tell Jack his story? Maybe. Maybe just a little bit. After all, the farmlad had offered his hearth and home to the blond. Jack had also divulged his deepest secret to Elian. Elian thought that Jack deserved a measure of trust after all they'd been through. Elian straightened and looked Jack in the eye. "It's just, right there, you reminded me so much of my little brother..." So many things were running through Elian's head, among them, the still-resonating horror of being violated.  
  
Ah, mused Jack. Elian's little brother again. The platinum wondered if he could, maybe, this time, press his luck and get some answers from the blond. Maybe this time he could actually get to know the person that was beneath that innocent but twisted, scared but strong, icy but warm exterior. The true Elian, and not just the part that the blond had so far chosen to show, or inadvertently shown to him. "How so?" asked Jack, softly, genuinely intrigued, but not wanting to seem altogether too pushy.  
  
"He was a brat. He was annoying. But he was funny in the way you're funny, Jack." The platinum blushed and beamed at the same time at the compliment. That Elian thought he was funny in what he supposed was a good way, was more siginificant to him than he'd thought it would be. "Anyway, what you said sounded exactly like something he would say. Something that made so much sense, but was so stupid it was funny." Elian blushed again, realizing he'd called Jack's idea stupid a second time. "Sorry..." mumbled the blond.  
  
"That's alright, Elian. A little stupid is a good thing." said Jack with a genuine smile. With bravado from all the 'praise,' Jack reached over to hold Elian's wrist, but the blond snatched it out of his grasp before he could wrap his fingers around it. "Where's your brother now?" The platinum's hand faltered, and he looked at Elian with confusion before withdrawing it and folding it on his lap.  
  
"Probably back home." Elian wrapped his arms around his waist and leaned forward, vivid images of the day he'd hurt his brother flashing in his mind's eye. There was a pain in his gut, one that seemed almost ethereal, but no less powerful than if it had been real. He remembered the icy knight given life by his powers. He'd not even known he could do such a thing. He remembered the claymore made of ice, the sharp-hewn blade, the sickening sound of spurting blood and Andrew's shouts of agony when the knight struck him, the loud cracking as the knight dissolved in Elian's horror...  
  
"Do you know what happened to him?" asked Jack, inching closer to Elian, concerned at what was happening to the blond. The temperature in the room had dropped a noticeable amount. The farmboy's movement towards Elian was almost instantly countered by the blond moving away again. There was definitely something else that was wrong, but Jack didn't think it was a good time to press the matter.  
  
"I know exactly what happened to him..." answered Elian grimly, pulling in closer to himself, folding over almost in half, arms crossed over his stomach. "I  _know..._ " The images of that fateful, terrifying day mingled with what had happened just mere hours ago, and Elian could feel the agonizing pain and horror both in his heart and in his most private of places. He remembered the twisting pain in his chest as he ran out of the palace that night, the burning agony in his ass as he was rammed deep.  
  
"If... I might ask, Elian... what happened to your little brother?" asked Jack, sliding right beside the blond and putting a hand on Elian's shoulder. The blond shrank away from the touch. Jack had moved too fast for Elian to be able to move away. He did not want the touch. It was the last thing he needed. He felt intense fear flare up within him. The temperature in the room dropped even further.  
  
"He's the reason I'm here right now, Jack. I hurt him." Elian had doubled over on the bed, and Jack was leaning over him, one hand on the small of the blond's back. It was almost as though the blond was experiencing some sort of physical manifestation of the wound in his soul. "I hurt him" said Elian softly. "I  _hurt_  him" he repeated, louder.  
  
"I'm a monster, Jack..." Elian shrugged Jack off as he whimpered, feeling the rough, calloused hands of Reg fumbling over his body, as he felt the icy coldness of the metal as it sliced through his clothes. Ice was beginning too pool around the blond again, and in his hand a shard of ice appeared. "Monsters deserve to be killed... Monsters don't deserve to live to hurt others again..." It was sharp. Where Elian held it, wounds were pressed into his skin, dark red lines that bled onto the ice, dripping down to the single point of the shard.  
  
Elian brought the weapon close to his wrist, but Jack knocked it away just in time. "Elian. Elian snap out of it. It's me, Jack." Another shard appeared in the blond's hand.   
  
"Let it end, Jack... Let it end..." whispered the blond, eyes focused on a faraway point, consumed by the sadness in his soul, his self-hatred, his fear, his refusal to acknowledge than anyone would ever love him for what he was despite the living proof before him to the contrary. Jack shook Elian in earnest, grabbing at the shard of ice and knocking it away only for another to appear.  
  
"Elian!" yelled the platinum, knocking the shard away again. Jack was at a loss. He did not know what to do. He couldn't afford to lose Elian. It was one thing, letting the blond leave to pursue what he wanted to pursue, and another to let him end himself. The latter gave Jack no chance to ever see the blond ever again. "Elian snap out of it, or gods help me, I will have Glaise lick your nuts again!"  
  
*  
  
When Elian had sufficiently calmed down, enough to descend from the brink of attempted suicide, Jack finally let go of his wrists. Glaise was helping him hold down the blond, but Elian was putting on an unprecedented show of strength, making restraining him a significant effort. A full twenty minutes later, the blond had stopped struggling and was instead resigned to staring emptily at a point in the distance. Jack brushed back the locks of hair that had fallen over Elian's eyes and kissed him on the forehead.  
  
"Elian..." Jack said, tapping the blond's cheek. "Elian come back to me..." he begged. Elian blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Slowly, the blond raised a trembling hand to his face, the cuts on his fingers bleeding freely. Crimson trickles streamed down into his palms and down his wrist, staining the ice on his arms red. Elian's eyes widened in shock and horror at the blood.  
  
"Jack... What... happened?" whispered the blond, turning his head to face the platinum. "What happened?" he repeated, voice small and scared. It was the first time that Elian felt himself drift away in a bout of all-encompassing misery and terror. He was scared, scared more than he had ever been before. He looked at his hand and the lifeblood still freely gushing from it, he was scared of how close he'd drifted to oblivion. Of how close he had been to succumbing to the sweet siren song of the void.  
  
Jack caressed Elian's cheek. "We were talking about your brother..." he whispered in the blond's ear. "But something happened and you... you wanted to slit your wrist..." There was genuine fear in Jack's now-light-blue eyes and that, more than his foray into the dark depravity that was letting go of his mortal life, terrified him. He did not want Jack to be afraid any more than Jack wanted him to be so. He wanted to protect Jack, and it dawned on him that if he wanted to do so, he had to protect himself too.  
  
The platinum helped the blond back into a sitting posture. Elian instantly slumped forward, propping himself up by his elbows on his legs. He held his hands out in front of him, one fortunately untouched, the other, bleeding from many deep cuts. Jack instinctively flexed his hand, pangs of sympathy pain rocketing through his body. Elian felt nothing, which made the bleeding all the more terrifying. His ice had numbed the area, but did little to suppress the rest of his body. He was trembling.  
  
Jack stood and walked to stand right in front of Elian. He called upon his ice again, conjuring that glowing snowflake that he'd used with Glaise. The light caught the blond's eye and he looked up at Jack, wonder as well as apprehension in his eyes. What manner of sorcery was the farmlad weaving this time? How had the platinum learned to control his powers so easily? Jack lowered the glowing snowflake onto Elian's injured hand and as it melted into the skin, glowing as it did, the gashes knitted back together, and the bleeding was stemmed.  
  
There were scars left, but they were thin and tiny, evading the light of the eyes from afar. The blond raised his hand in amazement, taking his other to trace the faint lines of scars that extended lengthwise down his palm. The wounds might not have been there at all, had there been no ice tinged red by blood around his arms. He whispered to Jack with an awestruck voice "How did you do that?"   
  
The platinum shook his head, not entirely sure how to explain the entire thing. "Glaise was... dying. And I couldn't let him." An involuntary sob escaped Jack's lips as he remembered seeing the dog broken and battered. "I used my ice on him, and I found out I could heal..." said Jack, slowly, casting a sideways glance at the hound beside him. Elian's eyes widened and a pained sound escaped his throat. "I saved him..." Jack said, taking a seat beside Elian. "Well... in a manner of speaking. I certainly didn't expect to get a wolf out of it..." said the platinum with a chuckle.  
  
Elian was speechless. He pulled Glaise up into his arms and buried his face in the now-thick fur of the hound's neck. He didn't even care that the dog was now licking his nape, plastering his hair to the back of his neck with ice-cold spit. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he whispered to the hound, rubbing Glaise's back up and down with his hand.  
  
"Hey... don't blame yourself." said Jack, himself rubbing the small of the blond's back. Elian jumped at the touch, causing Jack's hand to waver. The farmboy pressed on and rubbed Elian's back in soothing circular motions. For all the fear that was raging through Elian, the gentle touch reminded him nothing of Reg, only of tender, tender Jack. "It wasn't your fault those men were evil..." Jack said through gritted teeth. He'd seen what they did to Elian. "Besides... I think Glaise got out of it better" said the platinum, smiling.  
  
Elian pulled away from Glaise with a final rub around the hound's neck and smiled bitterly at Jack. "I know... but if I hadn't killed that woma--"  
  
Jack placed his index finger on Elian's lips, stopping the blond from uttering another word. The blond flinched at the touch. "If you hadn't killed that woman, you would be dead..." said Jack. "We've talked about this... It was her fault. Not yours. You were scared. I understand that... You don't have to keep tearing yourself down."   
  
"Jack..." said Elian slowly.  
  
"I know. You want to believe it, but you can't..." the farmlad sighed and continued his stroking of Elian's back. "Maybe someday you'll see yourself as something other than what you're not..."  
  
*  
  
The fire crackled and popped, and embers rose to the sky in a mesmerizing dance carried by the warm air that rose from the flames. A corner of the frame collapsed, sending another burst of embers high into the twilight sky streaked with brilliant colours. Jack sighed, tears streaming from his eyes, arms wrapped around his body, trembling ever so slightly. Reflected in his deep blue eyes was the ever-shifting waltz of reds, yellows, and oranges as tongues of flame devoured the painting that had been so unceremoniously desecrated.  
  
Elian was standing a few paces away behind Jack, a respectable distance, but not so far that the platinum was unaware of his presence. Elian wanted to give Jack time to his thoughts, even if it was for a moment. The farmlad swayed unsteadily on his feet. Elian crossed the gap, tossing an arm around Jack and embracing him close. He conquered whatever fear the experience with Reg had thrust upon him. He conquered it, because he wanted to be, he  _had_  to be strong for JAck. "Jack..." The farmlad sighed and leaned into Elian.  
  
"That painting was very important to me... especially after Kyle died..." Jack nuzzled Elian's neck. The blond fought every instinct to retreat from the affection. Despite his will fighting with all its might against it, he felt Reg's rough calloused hands all over him. He had to be strong. Jack needed the comfort. He pushed the terrible thoughts into the back of his mind. They could be dealt with later, but not now.  
  
"Why?" asked Elian. He didn't know if Jack would entirely be alright with divulging the reason, but he thought he should ask if only to prove that he was listening. Truth be told, however, Elian was fairly curious as well, beyond the fear that continued to hammer at the edges of his consciousness.  
  
"It's the only image of my fathers where they were genuinely happy, in love, satisfied..." whispered Jack into Elian's neck. "Nyko was always scared, or angry... Whenever I did things that were outside of his strict rules, he beat me. He wasn't very merciful..." Jack shivered, remembering the pain of those occasions. He looked at his arm and the red welts from Nyko's strong grip showed there in his mind's eye. "When Nyko died, Kyle was always sad..."  
  
"I just want to remember them when they were happy..." Jack mumbled. Elian stroked Jack's arm and hummed an old lullaby he thought he'd forgotten. He used it long ago to calm his younger brother when Andrew was panicking about things he'd done that he was probably going to get forgiven for. It seemed to work with Jack, but Elian could feel the tears running down Jack's face. "All I see in my mind is Nyko angry... and Kyle distraught... I want to remember them like they were in that painting. Happy. Before I came along..."  
  
Elian grabbed Jack by the shoulders and straightened his posture. He wiped the tears from Jack's cheeks and gently rubbed the platinum's right cheek with his thumb. "Don't you dare, Jack." The farmlad blinked in confusion at Elian. "Don't blame yourself... Jack, you're a sweet boy." Elian blushed. "And I don't think anyone would blame you for their misery."  
  
Jack hung his head, tears still dripping from his face. Elian pulled him in and embraced him. The blond flinched when Jack wrapped his arms around Elian. Bitter bile and panic rose in the blond's throat, but he forced it down, and focused on being as comforting for Jack as he could be. After all, Jack had done the same for him and deserved it.  
  
The two stood there, watching the fire crackle and pop until the very last embers stopped glowing red, with a final, dying breath of heat and light. Elian rubbed Jack's back and whispered "We should get back inside..." The farmlad wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and shook his head, straightening after leaning over Elian for such a long time.  
  
"There's one more thing I have to do..." Jack said, grabbing his left arm with his right hand, crossing over his chest. He walked away from Elian stiffly, slowly, hunched over with a dull pain aching in his heart. He walked over to his fathers' graves, where Nyko's sapling had been trampled by the men that had so indiscriminately destroyed whatever visage of peace Elian and Jack had been able to construct.  
  
Jack fell to his knees, looking at the sapling broken in half. It hurt almost as much as seeing his fathers die a second time. In truth, at this point, Nyko had died thrice, once from the mortal realm, once in the painting that they had just burned, and now, another time in the broken sapling. Jack caressed the small broken thing, gently stroking the fledgling leaves as Kyle would caress Nyko's cheek days before his death.  
  
Jack had planted the oak early on in spring, with Kyle's help, when his father was still strong enough to leave the farmhouse. Kyle had not left the day after that, or the one after, or the one after that... His health had deteriorated and not too long after, had followed in Nyko's footsteps to the Western Lands. Tears fell from Jack's face, sparkling as they did, and turning to ice as they left his face.   
  
 _"Jack... I can see the ship." said Kyle, moments before his death. "It's beautiful. Made of light... and gold... and Nyko's on it, waving at me..." Jack had been weeping openly at that point, head laying against his father's chest. "Gods, he's smiling. I haven't seen that in so long, Jack... He's beckoning to me..." gasped the older man, arm rising weakly as though reaching out to someone unseen to Jack's eyes._  
  
"I'm leaving with him, Jack... I'm leaving now... Be strong for me, alright?" His father had reached up to stroke his cheek with the same tender affection that Jack had always yearned for from Kyle. Jack's breath caught in his throat, he nodded his head. "That's my boy..." said the dying brunet, lowering his hand. Jack sobbed. Kyle had said it with such pride, and such love, that for one precious moment, he felt as though he truly belonged. That he was actually Kyle's child.  
  
One blessed moment that seemed to last eternity, yet still be far too short... Then a smile split Kyle's face. His eyes drifted shut. And a final breath left his lips in a satisfied sigh. Such an aura of peace settled on Kyle at that moment, that Jack knew his father wasn't falling into the cold skeletal arms of death, but into the warm waiting embrace of his deceased lover.  
  
As Kyle went still, Jack wept, unable to help the torrent of grief and fear of loneliness that tore through him at that exact moment. Glaise whimpered beside him, licking his face in an attempt to comfort him.  
  
Glaise was now doing the same thing. His cold, wet tongue was lapping at Jack's cheek, leaving a trail of cold slobber that dripped off of Jack's jaw with his tears. The hound nudged his master with his muzzle, and Jack threw his arms around his faithful companion. "Oh Glaise... I miss them..." he whispered to the dog.   
  
Elian stood nearby at a respectful distance, watching as both man and dog mourned the passing of Jack's parents. Glaise howled in the night. The moon was rising in the distance, shedding its milky white light on the earth, making Glaise's fur shine brilliantly. The hound almost seemed to be surrounded my a pale halo.  
  
Glaise licked Jack's face again and pulled away, padding over to where the sapling lay broken just as Jack tried to align the snapped stem. Glaise breathed onto the sapling, frost crystals streaming from his maw. They swirled around the wood, and latched on, and glowed in the light of the moon. Slowly, the sapling knitted itself back together, though now, glittering frost lined the stem.  
  
Glaise walked over to the other grave mound and breathed upon it too. Jack watched as the magic in the hound's breath swirled down through the earth, making the outline of the acorn beneath glow faintly. What had Glaise done? Jack didn't know, but he was sure that the hound was simply trying to help. Glaise had, after all, managed to fix the sapling somewhat. Only time would tell if it was actually still alive.  
  
Jack rose, again wiping the tears from his eyes. He missed his parents, but there was no use weeping over them any longer. It was not like his tears would bring them back. Not now. Not ever. He walked back to Elian, looking a bit lost. The blond had the exact same expression. Neither of them quite knew what to do for each other, but nevertheless, they drew inexorably closer together and enveloped each other in a warm embrace.  
  
Jack melted into it, Elian resisted it, but as the fates dictated, they remained entwined, each trying to comfort the other, each trying to help the other come to terms with what had recently transpired. Elian rubbed Jack's back. Jack stroked Elian's hair. They were almost lovers, in lovers' repose, were it not for the fact that they feared falling for each other because both were convinced they would eventually get torn apart. Jack less so, having given up pretending it was not going to happen eventually, but nevertheless, apprehensive as well.  
  
*  
  
Jack had put Elian in charge of watering and feeding the horses and the milk cows as well as milking the latter. He was just returning from tilling the fallow fields when he heard the nervous nickering of horses, and Glaise's frantic barking. He ran, only to witness ice climbing the side of the barn and stable walls.   
  
Jack burst in through the door, and found Elian shivering in fetal position in the middle of the barn. A bucket of frozen milk was halfway overturned beside him, kept in place by a block of ice that had grown to catch it. Glaise was sitting beside the distraught blond, barking madly, only stopping once he noticed Jack coming in through the barn doors.   
  
Now that he'd gotten Jack's attention, Glaise returned to licking Elian's face in an attempt to calm the blond. It had happened again earlier in the week, Elian had succumbed to a panic attack. Jack had very nearly died the last time, slipping and almost falling on a spike of ice that had grown near where Elian had fallen, a fact that did not escape the blond despite the platinum's assurances that he was alright. The blond had been quite despondent after that, refusing to do any work near Jack.  
  
Now Elian was on his own, and having a panic attack after milking the cows. Jack cursed the dead men who'd raped Elian for this unnecessary burden they'd thrust upon the blond's already-burdened shoulders. He cautiously approached Elian, making no sudden movements to startle the blond.  
  
"Elian..." he said, loud enough so that the blond could hear. "Elian... It's me, Jack..." He knelt beside Elian and placed a hand on the blond's shoulder. Ice shot up his arm, shattering and then falling off when Jack's own ice resisted its advance.  
  
The blond was mumbling. "Nonononono..." he kept repeating. "Please don't hurt him... Please..." Elian's eyes were wide with fear, frantic, and scared. They were fixed elsewhere, not seeing what was before him, only what was in his mind's eye. With Jack's every touch, the blond screamed and tried to get away. Elian could feel the phantom hands of his rapist on his body.  
  
Jack kept Elian close and bodily handled him, lifting him into a sitting position. Elian instantly curled up, burying his face between his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs and rocking back and forth. Glaise whined at Jack, and Jack frowned at his hound. What did the Frosthound expect him to do? Make Elian magically better?  
  
He frowned at Glaise again. He was only able to do that with physical injuries, not ones of the sort that Elian was having to deal with. He eased Elian's arms from around his knees, and straightened the blond's legs gently. He wrapped an arm around Elian's back and let Elian lay on it. He kissed the blond's forehead, whispering his name to Elian amongst assurances that the blond was safe, and that there would be no harm coming to him.  
  
It took a few more minutes for Elian to calm down sufficiently to return to the present. Even so, he was startled by Jack and tried to push the platinum away. Jack held him firmly close. Elian squirmed in his arms, but Jack was still stronger. "Elian...?" Jack asked, softly.  
  
Slowly, the frenzy in the Elian's eyes faded away and he went limp in Jack's arms. "I'm sorry..." he mumbled. "I'm sorry..." he repeated. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." Jack shook Elian slightly, lifting him from the darkness that he was falling back into.   
  
"Don't you dare blame yourself for it, Elian..." said Jack firmly, blinking back the water in his eyes that threatened to spill. If Elian had been a broken man when Jack had found him, Elian was even more so now. The farmlad brought Elian into his arms, into a warm embrace that he hoped offered safety, but the blond only stiffened in fear, only wrapping his arms around Jack after a few seconds of trying to even his breathing.  
  
Jack brought his forehead closer to Elian's. In the week they'd spent together, they had ended up becoming a lot more physical with each other. Neither one wanted to acknowledge that they were very slowly falling for the other, but it was the inexorable truth.  
  
Elian still had a lot of trouble with physicality, his recent brutal rape bringing up disgusting memories of working in brothels and that time he'd been beset upon by the filth of the village he'd gone to. Most days, Elian wouldn't even let Jack near him, but some days, it was easier, and they could be closer. Today was one of those days. Elian needed the company.  
  
He sobbed into Jack's shoulder, unable to form words to respond to the farmlad. Glaise was there too, licking up the tears that streamed from his eyes. Jack whispered comforts in his ear, and rubbed his back and stroked his hair. It made him feel at home, but he knew he would have to leave soon, if only to protect Jack from further harm that he knew he would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's a whole lot of Jack/Elian fluff(can it even be called that?)
> 
> What do you think of their interactions after the whole kerfuffle with Reg and Gav? I found it difficult to write Elian's suicidal episode. Was it convincing enough? To be honest, I also almost cried while I was writing out what happened to Kyle before he died, that small interaction he had with Jack. Gods. That was difficult. I haven't even touched on how Jack is dealing with the whole thing... Maybe I should do that in the next chapter. In any case, what do you think of the story so far? What do you think is coming next? :D I'd love to hear your comments! <3
> 
> Also. Would Saturday update-days be better for everyone? I'd like to know, because I'm considering doing that!
> 
> In any case, here's next week's preview:
> 
> _Andrew said as Hans pulled away only to come back and continue the kiss. Damn. The redhead knew just how to push the right buttons. "The most skilled swordsman... the most feared king..." Andrew gasped as Hans nibbled at his jaw. "The most ruthless general..."_
> 
> _Hans chuckled and traced a circle around Andrew's nipple with a single finger. "And old" he said, going down on Andrew and engulfing the prince's entire cock in the warmth of his mouth in one swift action._


	12. Interlude: ðocchyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello reader!
> 
> Unfortunately, Chapter 12 is going to take a bit longer to come out since I'm not quite satisfied with it yet. I'm 10000+ words in, but that will be cut down as I'll transfer parts of it to Chapter 13. I'll post it on Saturday, however, this has given me an opportunity to start posting "interludes" which would be mini-chapters tying up -some- plot threads and opening up others.
> 
> Oh, and before you go and read, let me just say that this interlude is not a continuity error, and that it does happen after chapter 10. When exactly is undetermined and intentionally left ambiguous.

The sun shone brilliantly, and, perhaps, to some, harshly. At its zenith, its lofty home at the peak of the dome of the sky, it shed its burning light upon the earth, upon the verdant grass, the lush foliage and the sun-baked earth of the village paths. The air itself was still, though not in apprehension of some ominous event, but nevertheless silent as the dead of night, with nary but a hushed whispering through the leaves of the trees in the outside world. The bells of the convent were tolling the hour, their brass throats ringing out to the townspeople that it was midday and perhaps time to fetch a quick meal to sate their hunger. Those men, women, and children, going about their business, none the wiser to the day's solemnity.  
  
Deep within the courtyard of the convent, hidden from all the outside world by stone walls higher than even the trees, impermeable by even the most prying of eyes and smooth enough to prevent the most determined of men from scaling them, stood a funeral pyre. Around the carefully arranged pile of tinder, sticks and firewood, stood men, priests of the Order of the Sun, dressed in the black of mourning with heads bowed in silent respect towards the pale, rigid body of the deceased on the pyre. There were three other lines of men, all on the western side of the circle, the middle line longer than the two to either side of it. They faced the pyre as well, their backs turned to the West. The West was no direction for the living to face, for to do so would be to seek the land of the dead.  
  
Softer. Softer. Softer. The tolling of the bells faded into the daylight. Where all the priests of the Order wore the stifling black cloth, decorated with golden embroidery, of grief, the one man among them who was genuinely distraught far beyond all else, was dressed in the white of purity. Around his legs, breeches of silk, on his torso, a white silken tunic, about his shoulders, a pure white cloak embroidered with suns in golden thread, and finally, shading his face from the radiance of the sun, a white cowl bearing the same symbols as his cloak. For an entire day, when the acolyte had first come into the order, he'd known only pleasure beyond any and all he'd ever felt before, beyond what even his first and last lover had been able to show him, and unsteady feet as his knees wobbled in unfulfilled, pent-up lust and desire.  
  
Then, the moon set that day, her bright scornful light fading into the dark of the hour before dawn. For but a fleet moment in the passing of the hours, there was only deepest darkness, and deepest despair in the acolyte's heart. He'd known nothing but grief since that day, since that tragic misfortune that had befallen him in his darkest hours. Since that day, there had been no joy in his heart, no happiness in his face. The Cage had even stopped working, and the pleasure it brought its prisoners was lost on him. There was nothing that could compare to the lamentation of his soul.  
  
As the acolyte stood before the pyre, he did not shake. He did not wring his hands in pleading supplication to deaf gods that would no more hear his plea than a cat would show mercy to a rat. There were no shuddering gasps that racked his lithe frame, no tears falling freely from his eyes, glittering as they went, before splashing upon the ground to water the earth. No worms would feed on his sorrow that day, he'd given them enough to drink of for many days past. Instead, there was only an almost-unbearable ache in his chest, a heart throbbing in the pain of irrevocable loss. He took the corpse's hand in his own and brought the cold flesh, once so bright with life, now coloured with the pallor of death, to his cheek. He savoured the touch. Enjoyed it. Loved it, even, though the man was far beyond the world of the living now.  
  
He stepped back as one of the oldest priests in the convent, a man who looked as much his age as a dog looked like a tree, began to make circuits around the pyre. In the priest's hands was a censer, plated with gold, and hanging from a net of golden chain wrapped around his hand and fastened to a golden bangle around the priest's wrist. The priest spoke blessings and supplications in a low, meaningful chant, in the words of a tongue so old that the very sound of it being spoken seemed to thrum with power. The acolyte, with his white robes, white cloak, and white cowl retreated from the pyre to the inner edge of the circle of men around it.   
  
The acolyte's eyes were transfixed on the censer. Even as the golden vessel swung freely back and forth, he could see the stark embers within, burning the incense that escaped in spiralling wisps of smoke that escaped from the censer's holes. They spiralled and danced and soared around the pyre, as though influenced by the words that the priest was chanting. Unbidden, his own lips began to move. They were set in motion by instinct, by his grief, and though he did not know it yet, a great latent power at the very core of his being.  
  
Softly, like whispers in the wind, like ash in a tempest, like the smoke now swirling around the courtyard, the acolyte spoke the selfsame words that his superior spoke. They dropped from his lips like petals in the breeze, but with each word, power suffused the air itself. Sparks began to appear sporadically in the spiralling smoke, illuminating tendrils with brief flashes of red-orange light.  
  
On his fifth circuit around the pyre, the old priest eyed the acolyte, their eyes meeting for but a moment. A fleeting gaze was all that the priest needed to speak a message that needed no words. A subtle crinkle in the corners of youthful eyes not worthy of the years they'd seen, a small smile tugging at lips still moving in prayer. There was pride. There was happiness. There was sympathy.  
  
The sparks became more frequent. High and low, east and west, north and south, they popped into and out of existence like passing dreams. Their warm light, however, remained, filled with love and profound longing. Swirls of smoke were illuminated by the orage glow, while the thicker parts of the gathering clouds of smoke shone with fire from within.  
  
Slowly, the sparks gave way to little tongues of flame that danced on the tips of the wisps of smoke. All the priests were entranced by the sight, flickering reds and oranges and yellows casting light on the ever-shifting cloud of shadows. The embers from the censer did not die, instead they remained alit and alight, carried along by the smoke in an enchanting dance around and around the pyre.  
  
The acolyte's voice gained strength as more and more tongues of flame appeared on the elegantly rolling mass of smoke. Louder. Louder still. Both he and the priest chanting as he walked around the pyre spoke in unison, their voices singing in a language long forgotten by the throats of mortal men, in a tongue never meant for them to speak. Then all sound stopped as both apprentice and priest froze where they stood, and the smoke, with all its tongues of flame rushed into the heart of the pyre.  
  
Eyes ablaze with power, the acolyte raised his head to the sky and spoke, at the exact same moment as the priest.  
  
 _"ðocchyn"_  
  
 _"Fire."_  
  
The pyre leapt up in flames with a great whoosh. The raging inferno soared far above the tall walls of the convent, reaching vainly for the sun. As though possessed, the acolyte slowly stepped towards the shooting flames. There were sounds of distress from the gathered priesthood, but they were all as equally spellbound as the lone acolyte. Much unlike him, however, they were rooted to where they stood.  
  
As he neared the pyre, the acolyte could feel the searing heat wash over him. He could see the threads of his clothing begin to smolder, blacken, burn. He reached out a hand and touched the wall of flame that was still attempting to leap even higher. The fire parted as though bowing in reverence to his touch. He reached down, caressing the side of the corpse's face even as the fire consumed the body's hair.   
  
The man threw back his cowl, revealing fiery-red cropped hair and a single tear rolling down his cheek. Rein brought his lips to Tristan's one last time, a final goodbye to the only man he had ever, and he was certain, would ever truly love. As their lips were sealed together in a promise that they could not know would last eternity, the fire wreathed them both.   
  
The raging flames seared Tristan's flesh, turned his skin black, and reduced his bones to ashes. Roaring fire devoured every thread of cloth on Rein's body, and burned away the belt fastened around his waist. But the metal contraption remained firmly in place. The metal began to grow red hot around the redhead's manhood, searing itself, welding itself onto his flesh. It was agony, but Rein could not scream, nothing quite compared to the pain of watching Tristan burn away into nothing.  
  
Rein stumbled backwards as the wood holding the pyre together burned away as well, joining Tristan's ashes as they spiralled away in the warm breeze that had just begun to blow. "Goodbye..." whispered Rein, his voice carrying in the wind to accompany the ashes wherever they found their way to. The priest, freed from whatever sorcery had rooted him in place, lowered the censer and knelt beside Rein.   
  
He saw the nasty burns and where the metal had pretty much welded itself onto the redhead's skin. "Child, you need seeing to." He lowered his hand to just under Rein's navel, feeling the still-warm metal, prodding it, trying to see if perhaps the Cage only  _seemed_  to be welded on. It was well and truly melted onto the redhead's skin, and perhaps the only way to rid Rein of it would be to melt the metal the rest of the way off. Rein shook his head and waved away the offer of medical help.  
  
"Not until the rites are finished... Please... Send him on to rest... To the gods..." whispered Rein, gripping the priest's arm tightly. His teeth were gritted in pain, both from the grief that had clamped a vicelike grip on him, and from the sheer agony of the cage melted onto his skin and his manhood. He would never be potent again, not in this lifetime. He laughed bitterly. Nor would he ever need to be.  
  
"Very well..." said the priest, not once taking his eyes off of Rein's prone, naked form. The subtle tremors that ran down the redhead's body were not lost on him. He could tell that the pain was beginning to catch up to the acolyte. The priest rose and motioned silence to the rest of the priesthood that had gathered. They had all lapsed into momentary hushed discussions of what had just occurred. They had never before seen such sorcery being worked.  
  
"It is time to give the final blessing..." The priest retrieved his censer, and swung it up towards the sky once. Twice. Thrice. There was no need for him to speak the next words in the Old Tongue, no need for him to speak in the language that predated Vampiri by countless millennia. The final words were words that transcended language, that transcended lifetimes, that transcended worlds.  
  
"May the Moon guide your sails to the West, Tristan, son of Man."  
  
Rein's eyes shot wide open at the words. Those... those words were forbidden ones. "Those are the words of the Old Gods!"   
  
The priest shook his head. "No, son of Fire, these words are the words of the Gods, both old and new, both forgotten and yet to be begotten..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that short interlude!
> 
> Feel free to bombard me with questions about what the hell just happened. :D I'd like to hear your thoughts, and obviously, the questions that this chapter raises, perhaps not only about Rein, but about the enigmatic sun priests themselves, such as: Why do they outlaw the old religion when they seem to practice it themselves?
> 
> In any case, I'd love to hear feedback. Would you like to see more Interludes for different characters we are going to come across along the way? Are you glad that Rein is still alive... well, after a fashion?
> 
> See you all on Saturday!


	13. Kinslayer

Jack climbed the stairs having just finished with the farm chores. The door to his room was open. He ducked his head inside to see if Glaise had made it in, but the hound was not there. The bed itself seemed very slightly moved out of position, no longer exactly the way he'd left it earlier in the morning. If anything, though, the room seemed cleaner, more tidied up. Had Elian been in there? He raised an eyebrow, suspicious.  
  
Jack heard soft grunts and panting from the other room, among numerous sounds of discomfort. What was Elian doing? He walked over to the door of the room which was slightly ajar, but could not see much inside. What he could see seemed to be a blur of wood being swung through the air. He pushed the door open and stood in the doorframe, heart fluttering at the sight that greeted him. Elian was shirtless and a layer of sweat -- Jack had become painfully aware that despite the ice within them, they could still sweat under duress -- covered him.   
  
In Elian's hand was a wooden sword, and it was spinning about the blond as though it had a life of its own. Elian was softly grunting and panting as he went through the forms of the sword. He'd trained in the art of swordplay for so long, that the forms and stances of the discipline continued to come to him despite years of being out of practice. It was one thing that they came to him, but to put them into motion proved to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. At this point in time, Elian felt as though his arms were lead.  
  
When he'd found the wooden sword, Elian was more than a little surprised. He had a feeling he shouldn't have found it or touched it, but he could not resist it's allure. The blond nearly dropped the thing when he noticed Jack in the doorway, watching him slackjawed. "I-I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snoop..." Elian hid the sword behind him as though it would change the fact that he'd just been using it. "I... I was just cleaning your room and I saw it and I couldn't help it..."  
  
Jack shook his head and smiled genuinely at Elian. The blond breathed a sigh of relief. "No, by all means, continue..." said Jack, a hint of awe evident in his voice. He'd never seen such beautiful and fluid motions. Elian lacked grace, probably from lack of practice, but the forms themselves lent much beauty to the swordsman's movements.  
  
"I... I think I'm done for now..." said the blond, sheepishly handing the wooden sword back to Jack. "I'm sorry... I won't rummage through your stuff again..." said the blond, blushing at being caught red-handed. That being said, what he thought he was doing trying out sword forms again, he didn't entirely know. It was not like he was ever going to get his hands on good steel again. Unlikely that he would ever have a use for the skill that had been forced onto him by his father.  
  
Jack blocked the sword with his hand and insisted that Elian keep it. "It seems like you can use it more than I do... I was just fantasizing when I was a kid about maybe being able to use a sword someday..." Elian smiled at Jack and sat on the bed. The farmlad sat beside him, but at an arm's length away. The blond smiled at Jack again, this time, appreciatively. He didn't feel comfortable with the proximity. "How did you learn how to use the sword so well?"  
  
Elian set the sword on his lap, the handle pointing towards Jack. He looked at the platinum and breathed deeply. Perhaps it  _was_  time that someone knew his story. "It is tradition, where I come from, that the eldest son be taught how to wield the sword, and for him to teach the art to his young brothers in turn." Elian's mind's eye turned to the past, and the many years he'd spent with tutors simply learning to handle the sword and then to swinging it, and then to using it to kill.  
  
"Where  _do_  you hail from, Elian?" asked Jack, genuinely curious as he'd never heard of such a custom save perhaps from Nyko who spoke of how his father had taught him the art of the quarterstaff. Nyko had passed on the art to Jack and the farmlad, unassuming as he might seem, was decently well-versed in the nonlethal weapon.  
  
"I'm from Vamara..." Jack raised an eyebrow at the blond. He'd never heard of the place. Not even once. Elian saw the confusion on the platinum's face and smiled. "Not many know of it, but it was once a beautiful kingdom by the sea."  
  
"Once?" The word sent chills racing down Jack's spine. There was something familiar about the name Vamara, but he couldn't quite place it. As though a memory long forgotten, reawakened by a single sentence. It was but a fleeting feeling, gone almost as suddenly as it had come.  
  
"Once..." Elian said sadly. The last he'd seen of Vamara's beautiful shores and the majestic placid sea was but a fleeting moment in between his tutors, the next he'd seen, the soft waves crashing against the shore were frozen still in eternal slumber. "I set off an eternal winter... and last I saw of it, gone were its beautiful sands, it's gorgeous beaches." Elian could see it in his mind's eye, those long stretches of sand that he'd played along as a child... replaced by icy beaches and waves frozen in the middle of crashing.  
  
"Couldn't you lift the eternal winter?" asked Jack, inching closer to Elian. The blond inched away. The platinum hung his head, resigning to Elian's wish to keep distant. He raised his eyes and met Elian's inquiring gaze. "I mean, you did manage to unfreeze me..."  
  
"I didn't even know I could do that, Jack... And even if I did, I don't know  _how_." Elian shook his head and buried his face in his hands. "I..." He was not sure he should tell Jack, but there was something inside him that demanded that he tell his story, that Jack deserved to know why Elian was who he was. "I was the crown prince."  
  
Jack's eyes widened. "T-the crown prince?" He was but a farmlad, but he knew about nobility, the people that his fathers told him had most authority over peasants like himself. "I-I-I shouldn't address you by Elian, then, my lord" muttered Jack. For some reason the words tumbled out of his mouth heavy on his tongue. They were unnatural. Unwanted.  
  
Elian blushed and reached over and smacked Jack on the shoulder. What possessed him to do that, he didn't know. "I'm no lord, Jack. Not anymore." Elian gestured to himself. "Prince Elian Calland of Vamara is no more. Dead. Buried." Jack nodded somberly. Elian did not act like someone of noble birth, and if he did, he acted like a lord that had lived amongst peasants all his life. He was one of them now.  
  
"I can't say I miss him, Jack. Maybe I did the first few months when I ran away from home..." There was a wistful look on Elian's face, an almost nostalgic one. "But I think I just missed having a soft bed and a warm hearth to sleep by. Vamara was almost never beset by winter, and even the worst one in the books was a mild one by the standards of this land... They had to build a hearth for me, the cursed prince."   
  
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Elian stopped him before he could. "I know, I know, you don't think it's a curse... but I do. In any case, I don't miss him, Jack. I don't miss him because he was expected to kill his own father."  
  
\---  
  
 _A slender hand ran down Andrew's now-chiseled chest. Ever since Elian had run away, he'd put in hours upon hours upon hours of training and honing his physique. He was frustrated. He was angry. He wanted nothing more than his brother back, and his father could do nothing but provide him with half-explanations and un-truths, ever the politician.  
  
It had been a year since that fateful day, and Andrew had built himself into a marvelous specimen of a man, with glistening musculature, well-defined and firm. Where there had once been childish fat, there was now only lean meat. His arms bulged like Elian's never would. His thighs strong, but not nearly as wide as the weaponsmaster's that were much like tree-trunks in their own right.  
  
"You know..." whispered the slender, beautiful redhead beside him. "Your father has failed in his tasks as a king..." Tempter, mused Andrew as the slender man crawled his fingers over Andrew's well-defined chest. "You are the heir apparent now..." The man drawled in a pleasant, arousing voice that sank straight into Andrew's cock. "...You can become king."  
  
"Hans" grumbled the young prince. "Hans... I can't defeat him yet." His redhead paramour swung up on top of him, pinning his arms down to the bed. Andrew struggled to push Hans off of him, but to no avail. His wrists were frozen to the bed. A lecherous smile graced Hans' face and he leaned down to kiss the young prince. A flutter of excitement grew in Andrew's chest. They were, after all, a forbidden pair in the eyes of the gods. Not that the priests could do anything to the crown prince, not now that he was the only remaining heir.  
  
"Oh yes, Andrew... Yes you can..." Hans reached down and quickly undid the laces that tied the prince's silken breeches together and quickly slipped them off. He himself was dressed in quite compromising clothes, each and every article accentuating the curves and dips of his body that he knew Andrew lusted so much after.  
  
"My father..." Andrew groaned as Hans breathed upon his rigid cock. The breath was frigid cold, but he liked it. Ever since his ice powers had developed, he'd liked it. His white hair, now much more akin to Elian's than his brown had once been, was splayed out behind his head. Hans stopped his toying with Andrew's cock to kiss him again and run his hands through the prince's hair.   
  
"Is the most powerful man this side of the known world..." Andrew staggered through the words as Hans pulled away only to come back and continue the kiss while languidly stroking the prince's cock. Damn. The redhead knew just how to push the right buttons. "The most skilled swordsman... the most feared king..." Andrew gasped as Hans nibbled at his jaw. "The most ruthless general..."  
  
Hans chuckled and traced a circle around Andrew's nipple with a single finger. "And old" he said, going down on Andrew and engulfing the prince's entire cock in the warmth of his mouth in one swift action._  
  
\---  
  
"What?" asked Jack after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Kill your own father?" The platinum shuddered. He barely was able to take burying his own father, he could not imagine the abomination that was killing his own parent. Sure, neither Nyko nor Kyle were his birth-father, but they were as much fathers to him as though he was their own flesh and blood. He could not imagine having to kill either one of them. Nyko had temper issues, yes, but he was mostly pleasant. Kyle was morose, but loving, and Jack couldn't bear the thought of sliding a dagger through his ribs.  
  
The farmlad just stared at Elian, mouth slightly agape. "It's a monstrous culture, I know..." said Elian, a bitter laugh slipping through his lips. The blond shook his head. "I couldn't bear the thought. My father was a ruthless man... A savage man as some would say... I got not a single peep of affection, not a single droplet of love from him, but he was my father all the same." Elian trembled. "He could not bear to face me for my curse, and the fact that he would someday die by my hands... He called upon the greatest swordsmasters in the kingdom, and it was they that taught me, not my father as custom dictated."  
  
"The greatest King of Vamara, they called him, for he conquered far and wide, expanding our borders far beyond where they had been in living memory." Elian had a sad smile on his face. "He fancied perhaps living forever. My very existence challenged that fancy, and he did not like it, not a single shred..." Tears streamed down Elian's face, freezing as they left his skin. "...This curse that plagues me... He feared it." The blond balled his fists, ice slowly creeping up his arms. "Imagine that, Jack... your own father, terrified by the sight of you..."  
  
"I don't have to..." confessed Jack. His own fathers had demons that haunted them until their last days... Kyle had been terrified of dying right up until he saw Nyko on the ship, waiting to take him to the Westerlands. There had been a day when Kyle thought Jack was death in the guise of his adopted son. The look of terror on his father's face would never leave Jack's mind. Never. It had hurt, a lot, to see his own father so afraid of him. "My father Kyle..."  
  
Elian nodded solemnly, stopping Jack from saying anything more. He understood what the platinum was saying. "I was ever the obedient child, trying my damned best to get my father's attention, to maybe get even the slightest dredge of affection... I never got it, but I learned the way of the sword as he wanted me to. My tutors all told me that I rivaled my father in raw skill, and if not for his immense experience, I could probably have taken the crown..."  
  
"What did you do?" Jack asked, feeling suddenly cold. There was an inexplicable chill in the air as Elian talked of the twisted customs of his homeland.  
  
"I told them to not be stupid. They insisted that I try. I told them I would do no such thing..." Elian sighed. It was a deep, heavy sigh that told of much suffering and an enormous burden. "My father heard of it and had me beaten for being a coward... by the Palace Inquisitor. The greatest and  _only_  legal torturer in the city of Vamara."   
  
\---  
  
 _"Father, where is Elian?" Andrew demanded, striding powerfully through the doors of the throne room. His father was hunched over in his throne, bolts of ince uncontrollably shooting from the hands that he held closed to his chest. Andrew ducked, narrowly avoiding one bolt that went right at his head. The King glared at him and straightened, the ice coming under rein as the ruler rose to his full regal stature.  
  
"Your brother is gone. Dead. Dead to the kingdom" snarled the king, ire and irritation evident in his voice. Andrew had put forth the question every day since the search party had returned empty-handed. His headstrong youngest son was a nuisance, a pest that he wanted so dearly to get rid of if not for the fact that Andrew was well beloved by the people, and the gods.  
  
"Dead to you" said Andrew grimly. A hush ran through the gathered nobility. They had been watching with fear and bated breath as the king struggled with his ice. It seemed as though the curse was at its most insidious and most volatile within their beloved and feared monarch. "You've always hated my brother. Always despised him. Always _feared _him."  
  
The king slammed his fist on the arm of the throne, cracking the layer of ice that had built up over it. "How dare you?! Insolent son of a whore!" The court gasped. Never had they seen their king so angry, so out of balance, so off-kilter, so... unstable. Akthar was cruel, ruthless, unkind and merciless, but above all he was cold and calculating. Even the queen, normally emotionless as the ice that swirled within all of them, flinched at the king's outburst.  
  
He did nothing without much thought, without weighing the odds and the gains and likely losses. No, they had never seen their king so taken by emotion as now. Hushed conversation began to rise about the court. The king slammed his fist on the throne again, sending out a pulse of ice through the floor, rooting everyone but himself where they stood.  
  
"You _feared _him... Imagine my surprise when I realized that. Akthar the Bloody, Greatest King of Vamara, Restorer of Birthrights, Rebuilder of Empires, afraid of his own fledgling son." Andrew snarled at his father. He had had enough. He loved his brother, perhaps more so than was appropriate for brothers, but it was truth nonetheless. If Akthar was not going to take the search for the young prince Calland seriously, then Andrew was going to in his stead.  
  
The king glared at his son, motioned at his guards, and opened his mouth to speak. He was about to sentence Andrew to seven hundred lashes at the feet of the Inquisitor, but Andrew knew better. He interrupted his father before words could flow from his mouth. "I, Andrew Calland, Heir Apparent of the kingdom of Vamara, do hereby challenge my father, Akthar Calland the Bloody, The Great King of Vamara, The Restorer of Birthrights, The Return of Old Vamara, The Might of the Storm and Kinslayer for the Crown."  
  
The king's eyes bulged from their sockets in outrage, surprise, and ultimately, fear. Again silence fell on the panicked crowd. The king beckoned forth his most trusted adviser, and growled in a low voice audible only to the two of them. "Is this legal by our customs and laws of succession?"  
  
"I am afraid so, your majesty. You did, just moments ago, declare the First Prince dead." The king narrowed his eyes at his advisor and the poor man found himself impaled on the far wall by an enormous spike of ice. As his blood dripped to the floor, the king drew his longsword and sickle as he strode down from the dais that held his throne.  
  
"Let it be known that today, Andrew Calland, my son, ceased to exist, and that Andrew Calland, Heir Apparent to the Throne of Vamara will die with him." The king snarled and swung the greatsword at Andrew who deftly dodged it, having seem the move coming from a mile away. His father was getting old, and despite his years of experience, was becoming more and more stuck to one style of battle, unable to adapt to a quickly changing battlefield.  
  
All that Andrew had with him were his hands and the ice that existed within him. His father swung again, but Andrew was one step ahead. He sidestepped and brought his hand down on his father's neck. The king stumbled from the blow, crashing into a nearby pillar. The king rose, and spat blood from his mouth before charging his son once more.  
  
This time Andrew did not dodge. He stretched his hands out to block the blades and as they approached his flesh, the air itself almost turned solid from the sheer bitter cold that the white-haired prince summoned. The metal became so brittle that instead of hewing through Andrew's arms, the blades shattered. The trick was one that Hans had taught him, and one, he realized, that his paramour had given him just for such an occasion.  
  
The king fell to his knees, stunned, but Andrew was not yet done. He picked up his father by the throat and slammed him against the nearest pillar. "If you will not search for my brother because you fear him so, then I will in your stead. Let it be known that today, I am no longer Andrew Calland, Heir to the Throne of Vamara, but that I am now Andrew Calland, King of Vamara, and Kinslayer."  
  
When the king was on the verge of suffocating, when his hands had stopped uselessly scrabbling at Andrew's fingers, when his face had nearly turned purple from the lack of air, Andrew let his father fall. The king fell in a crumpled heap on the floor, and the queen ran to his side, tears and complete terror in her eyes. They would have one last day to get their affairs in order. The next, they would be ritual sacrifices to the gods.  
  
*  
  
The wind was biting cold, but it did not bother Andrew, nor did it bother Hans, who was leaning against him, watching the proceedings. Andrew waved the redhead away as his future wife approached. He shuddered at the thought of ever having to couple with her. Fortunately, he had a plan. The people of Vamara had gathered by the frozen sea. A small portion of it had been sawn through to reveal the yet-flowing waters underneath the ice. Above it was a dock with a trapdoor set in the middle.  
  
Akthar had been less than willing to resign to his fate, to follow customs that had been followed for millennia. As a result both he and his wife were now naked, bound and gagged and tied to a massive rock on trapdoor. An elder intoned "Today we celebrate the crowning of a new king for this, the oldest shard of a mighty old empire. It is from the might and memory of Old Vamara that we draw our strength, our authority, our divine right to rule these lands. May you, Andrew Calland, bring back the might of Old Vamara that our kingdom may grow again into the Empire it once was, and that our people may yet again enjoy golden years of prosperity."  
  
"With the coming of a new ruler is the departure of the old ones. We of Vamara were born of the sea, and to the sea we shall return. We ask that the gods of old take the bodies of this once-great king and his queen and return them to their halls beneath the waves where they belong. We ask that the new gods, they three that rule the skies, they three, the rulers of the suns, embrace these people and give them seats at their table." The elder nodded to Andrew and he pulled the rope.   
  
For a moment, nothing happened, and silence was absolute save for the whistling of the wind. Then, the hinges swung open, and the trapdoor spilled the old king and queen into the frigid waters below. Muffled screams from the two were heard as they fell, but as soon as they were beneath the waves, the waters froze above them, giving them no hope of ever escaping their eventual demise beneath the icy waters. They no longer belonged to the land of the living. Now, the servants of the old sea-god would take them to his hall in the West.  
  
The elder beckoned to the man standing nearby with the golden diadem of the king and the silver circlet of the consort. He raised the golden crown to the skies, and the clouds broke for but one glorious moment, sending a brazen bar of sunlight through to illuminate the crown and the young King that knelt to receive it. When the crown had settled on Andrew's temples, the sunlight faded away, as though a distant memory gone too soon to enjoy. It had been well over a year since the sun had last been seen over Vamara, and their kingdom was suffering for it.  
  
Andrew raised his hand, stopping the ceremony. The woman who'd been promised to him as wife, kneeling beside him to receive her circlet, frowned in consternation. What woman would not? In truth, what mortal man would not? To be interrupted mere moments away from receiving such authority and power was a truly frustrating thing. To be denied it entirely was such even more. "With this crown upon my brow, I now wield the power of the state, the sovereignty of Vamara... My first decree is that from this day forth, any man is free to marry whomsoever he wants, no matter the parts or the gender."  
  
A hush fell over the crowd, and some of the elders shook their heads in disapproval. "To this end, I declare that my consort shall not be this hideous witch, but my true beloved, Hans Westergard." The redhead came forth, dressed in his revealing, sensous leather and wrapped his arm around Andrew's.  
  
The elder that was presiding over the coronation frowned and stepped in. He berated Andrew. "This is not something that is for you to change, though you may be king of Vamara now. We have laws. Ancient customs. You may not change them simply to marry such... abominations." The woman nodded in agreement. Andrew growled in anger.  
  
"I am the king!" he yelled, his voice booming across the sea and the people gathered. It silenced any and all voices, both supportive and dissident. "It will be as I say!" The protests began and grew louder. It was mostly from the elderly portion of the populace. "I am the king!" Andrew bellowed at the top of his lungs. Hans smiled beside him, tracing the king's chest through his tunic languidly, as though there was not a riot sparking around them.   
  
The elder opened his mouth to challenge Andrew again, but was unable to speak through the spike of ice that had all of a sudden erupted into existence, impaling him from asshole through to the top of his head. As his blood dripped on the clear ice, the protests grew even louder.  
  
The woman he'd been promised to joined in with the protests. She was the next to succumb to Andrew's ire, a spike impaling her as well. Then the next elder. Then the next. After the third impaling, the people had begun to notice, and they remained silent. Hans, however, was not done. He had seen and knew each and every one that had cried nay to their king. He pointed at them in turn, and one by one the elders that had spoken, died, impaled.  
  
Andrew summoned his voice once more. "I am this kingdom's ruler now, and _my _word is_ law _."_  
  
\---  
  
"Our customs dictate that if the heir wishes to accede to the throne, he must challenge the existing king to a duel and defeat him." Elian said with a sigh. "When that is done, the king is expected to 'return to the sea' with his queen, in a ritual drowning..." The look of horror that crossed Jack's face was enough to tell Elian that he was not the only one that thought that Vamara's customs were horrible and archaic. They were remnants of an old fallen empire that spanned beyond the reach of eagles' eyes... If the stories were to be believed, Old Vamara was truly a sight to behold.  
  
The soaring spires and elegant domes of his birth city were but shadows of the old glory of the empire. The city of Vamara itself, the dying core of that vast old star, burning but dimly in the darkness of the age that followed the fall of Old Vamara, no longer as blindingly radiant as it had been back in the prime of its years. "Is that why you ran away?" asked Jack, softly. The farmlad knew he would have done the same, but Elian shook his head sadly.  
  
"No... The true reason I ran away was far more tragic..." Elian shuddered. "I hurt my brother... killed my first lover... cursed my people... and destroyed my kingdom..." Tears fell from the blond's eyes. Jack slid closer and wiped them from Elian's face. When the blond did not retreat from the touch, the farmlad threw his arm around Elian in an attempt to give him solace, to give him some semblance of comfort despite the deep emotional pain Jack was sure the blond was experiencing.  
  
"Elian..." Jack began, pausing almost immediately after because he did not know what else exactly to say. "Elian..." No other words were forthcoming, but he mustered as much sympathy without abject pity in his words. "Elian, I'm sure you didn't mean any of it..." Jack could scarcely even fix in his mind's eye the image of Elian deliberately hurting his younger brother, cursing his people, and bringing an entire kingdom to its knees.  
  
Simply put, it was something that Jack simply did not think Elian had the capacity to do, what with all the blame he was levying on himself needlessly. No, the farmlad was sure that Elian had far too much of a consciousness to have done all of those things willfully, in a malicious, deliberate attempt to wipe his old home from the face of the earth.  
  
Much to Jack's surprise, the blond threw his arms the farmlad's neck, sobbing. Every ragged inhalation, every shuddering exhalation sent tremors down Jack's body. "No... No I didn't..." Elian cried into Jack's shoulders, mumbling all the while. "I never meant it... never meant any of it..." he lamented. He wanted foriveness, but he was sure that the gods, spiteful as they were, would never give it to him. Would never allow him the slightest chance for redemption.  
  
\---  
  
Jack started awake in his bed. The windows were open, and milky bars of the waning moon's light streamed into the room, bathing his pale skin and platinum hair with its soft glow. The night was cool, not icy, for once. Ever since the incident, when the men that had pursued him for a week had finally caught up with Elian and raped him, the blond had been having nightmares, making the temperatures in the farmstead plummet.  
  
That night, Elian was sound asleep, enjoying a brief respite from the nightmares that haunted him even in his waking hours. There was no concerned whining from Elian's new nightly companion, Glaise, nor was there any urgent howling, calling for Jack to come help wake the blond up. Jack's faithful friend, his dog-turned-frosthound, had taken quite a liking to the young prince, and with his nightly vigils at Elian's side, seemed bent on making entirely sure no harm would come to the blond. For that reason alone, Jack admired Glaise's loyalty and pressing concern for the man that had captivated, albeit inadvertently, his heart.  
  
While Jack appreciated that Glaise stayed by Elian's side through the long night, protecting him from whatever manner of horrid dreams would visit him, he sometimes wished that Glaise would come and sleep at  _his_  side. With both his fathers dead, and his hound preoccupied elsewhere, there was no one to protect Jack from the terrors that prowled his dreams. The farmboy shivered despite the night's relative warmth, remembering the haunting images that had plagued him not too long ago. The darkness of the room, coupled with the pale light of the moon, provided the perfect canvas upon which the very visages of Jack's fears were brought to life by his mind's eye.  
  
\---  
  
 _Bais was suckling her calf in her special pen. After all, the cow would be spending the next long while with her infant. There had originally been two, but the horrid, piteous keening that the cow had made when the baby bull was born meant only one thing -- it was a stillborn. Jack had seen tears brimming in Elian's eyes, and he felt a profound sadness in himself as well. Though the cow may be an animal, there was no denying that there was some sort of intelligence behind her seemingly-dead eyes.  
  
Of all the cows in the herd, it was Bais that was most comfortable with Glaise. She showed no alarm when Glaise jumped into the pen as she was suckling her last remaining calf, a young cow like herself. Jack had seen it before, the calf would grow up to be a freemartin, sterile and unable to bear calves of her own. Had he been his father Nyko, he would've culled her from the herd then and there. There was no reason to keep her around other than for meat.  
  
Yet Jack was not his father, and his heart held a lot of love for the animals on his quaint farm. He could barely watch as Glaise snapped up the stillborn bull before leaping out of the pen, a predator in all his grace. Glaise padded over to Jack, licking the blood from his maw, and stretched out on the ground beside his master.  
  
The farmlad needed not to look, only listen, to know that Elian had not taken the frosthound's actions as well as Jack had, even if the platinum had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. From behind him he could hear the retching. Jack was fairly certain the blond's breakfast had made a second appearance. He did not blame Elian, he'd not thought Glaise could do such a thing.  
  
Jack turned to the blond, and their eyes met as Elian was wiping the vomit from the corners of his mouth. It was then that it hit him, like a bolt of lightning out from the clear blue. The first calf had been born. Elian was leaving. The sadness in Elian's eyes froze him in place, and he found himself unable to speak.  
  
*  
  
A part of him wanted Jack to scream out "No!" or "Don't go!" or even "Take me with you!" as he watched Elian heft the pack that he had painstakingly put together for the blond. Inside was clothing, rations, and basic tools necessary for survival in a life on the run. From what, Jack no longer knew, for as far as they were concerned, the immediate threats to Elian's safety were no longer on the mortal plane. "Don't go..." begged Jack's mind silently, the lump in his throat barring any and all words from utterance. "Don't go... It's not safe out there..." pleaded his heart as Elian adjusted the leather strap on his shoulder.  
  
The blond looked up and met Jack's eyes, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to freeze around them. There was a profound sadness in both their eyes, and an unmistakeable happiness with it. Elian was sad to leave, he did not want to, but knew that he had to. Nevertheless, both he and Jack, though they dreaded their separation, were happy that they had met someone like the other...  
  
"Jack..." said Elian slowly, the sadness palpable in his voice. The blond was standing in the doorway, light streaming in behind him. "Thank you... for everything" he said. Jack's throat was still locked up and all he could afford Elian was a nod as he tried to blink away tears. Elian had tears in his eyes as well, he really did not want to go. "It's alright..." said the blond, a sad but sincere smile on his face. "Remember, I promised that I will come back for you if I can."  
  
Jack nodded again. Before he could stop himself, his arms were wrapped firmly around Elian, a gesture of comfort, goodwill, and a final attempt to fix in his mind the feeling of the blond's icy warmth. Elian drew back, and kissed Jack on the cheek before he turned around to return to the world outside the farmboy's. Just before he entered the treeline, the blond looked back, and smiled, waving goodbye to Jack and Glaise.  
  
Then a shadow rippled behind Elian, from between the trees. From the distance, Jack could barely make out its face, but he needed not to see more than a shred of it to feel his veins run cold. It was a creature of the grave. Its skin was mottled gray and black and white and blue where the frost was still firmly embedded. Here and there were jagged missing chunks of flesh, exposing the gleaming white bones underneath. A skeletal grin was permanently affixed on its face which was half-covered in ice, and partly-sloughed off.  
  
That face was one that Jack would recognize anywhere. It was one of the men that had attacked Elian. The very same one that had raped him. "Elian!" shouted Jack, trying to warn the blond, but it was too late. The shambling creature had made its way to Elian and a single touch tore off all the blond's clothes and dissolved the pack that Jack had lovingly constructed.  
  
"No!" he yelled, even as he ran through the threshold of the house, towards Elian. Too late. One gesture was all it took from the shade. One gesture to make a horizontal slit on Elian's throat that instantly began to spurt blood. The blond's eyes grew wide with surprise, and then terror, and then... absolute agony.   
  
Jack saw the spectre press his hips into Elian's bare backside, and in his rage he cursed the man for his perversions even from beyond the grave. The spectre did not move. Glaise was bounding at full speed towards Elian, but the blond seemed to retreat further away with each leap. Jack saw Elian's abdomen grow larger, a large round protrusion taking the place of his flat belly.  
  
Elian's face and lips were contorted in a voiceless scream of agony, and his eyes were alight with the rage of the Coldsnap, but no ice was coming. The distention grew larger. And larger. And larger. Larger still it grew until a sickening ripping sound filled the air, loud and clear to Jack as though he was right beside it. The flesh of Elian's belly tore clean off, his entrails spilling out from the sheer size of the undead cock that had split him apart.  
  
"NO!" screamed Jack as the light in Elian's eyes died, and both he and the creature melted into darkness like ashes into the wind. "NO!" he lamented as he fell to his knees, powerless to stop what had just happened. "NO!" he cried as he lost his voice and he pounded his fury into the earth. And then, blissful wakefulness. _  
  
\---  
  
Jack turned on his side, heart still hammering from the vivid recollection of the nightmare that had plagued his sleeping moments. In that ghastly visage of the world of the living, Elian had died a gruesome death at the hands of the un-dead corpse of his rapist, torn apart by the very same cock that had broken him. Jack shuddered at the thought. It was just a nightmare, he told himself, trying to find some comfort. It was just a nightmare.  
  
"The creatures of myth and folklore could not be true, right?" The platinum asked himself, breaking the silence of the night. He was no longer so sure. He had been so staunch in his belief that the tall tales told by his fathers had been nothing but exactly that, tall tales. No longer. When the beautiful pale golden-haired creature of Winter had crossed paths with Jack, his sincerely held belief of the normalcy of the world around him was shattered.  
  
He himself carried the selfsame ice that was at the heart of Elian's problems, that was at the heart of his crippling self-doubt and self-loathing. Jack shivered again, the night air suddenly feeling colder than it truly was. At the very least, he was sure that neither Elian's rapist or the man that had attempted to take the farmboy against his will, were going to come back from the special place that the East held for them. They were strewn on the hillside by the farmstead, sinew, muscle, flesh, blood, and shards of bone, slowly thawing in the heat of the summer sun.  
  
Jack shivered again, a chill that cut right to the bone traveled up his back. He had to protect Elian. He had to fix whatever it was that was broken inside the blond. Whatever it was that his ice could neither reach nore cure. Perhaps the dream was but a passing nightmare, one that had come many a time before, but there was one thing it made clear for Jack: he had to fix Elian, or if he let the blond leave the farm before he did, the blond would probably get himself into deeper trouble than he had been before he'd met Jack.  
  
The farmboy rolled over to face the other side of the bed, curling into up into himself. The very idea of Elian being hurt was like a spearhead being stabbed into his chest. Nevertheless, he could do no more about that until the morning came. For the time being, he had to live with his own waking nightmares. He breathed deeply, the breath coming in raggedly through his clenched teeth. He could feel the ice within him writhing, coiling, squirming as the fear in his heart grew. The air turned even colder.  
  
The wound in his back, just above the muscle of his buttocks burned with new pain. It was healed, there was nothing there but a jagged scar, but it still  _hurt_  whenever Jack remembered what had happened just a few days past. He remembered being bound, and gagged, bent over the bed. He remembered the cold steel against his skin as his clothes were sliced off, his virgin hole exposed to their attackers. Jack buried his face in his hands, shivering as he remembered the feeling of the blunt member pressing insistently at his most private orifice.  
  
Jack felt blood rush to his cheeks, remembering the feeling of the rough rope on his arms, and his powerless struggle against his bondage. He remembered the feeling of his mouth being stuffed with the gag. He remembered the fear at being held prisoner, at being maimed without even so much as being able to do anything against it. He remembered...  _liking_  it.  
  
A strangled sob escaped his lips. He whimpered. He had  _liked_  the feeling of being powerless, being at the mercy of someone else. Had  _liked_  almost being raped. He felt blood rush to his cock, felt the engorgment of his member from arousal. A small broken sound escaped his lips as he reached down, unable to stop his body from doing what it always did out of habit. He stroked his shaft up and down with urgency, bucking his hips into his hand, wanting release.  
  
He stiffened slightly, toes curling slightly inward as he felt his orgasm bubble up within him. He squirmed, stroking faster and faster, the image in his mind's eye, that of being bound and fucked without agency over what was happening to him. He straightened, legs locking as he let out a loud moan. His cock pulsed and spurted his milky white seed all over his tunic, soiling the rough linen.  
  
Whimpering, Jack rolled on his side. His cheeks were burning, but no longer from arousal, and much more from shame. Shame that he'd liked being tied up. That he'd liked being powerless. That he'd liked almost being raped. What kind of a man was he?   
  
He felt disgusted with himself, but not only for liking what was never supposed to be liked, but also, because in his mind's eye, it wasn't Reg or Gav binding him, it was Elian.  
  
As Jack drifted off into sleep once more, neither his heart nor his mind realized that he never had to struggle, never had to fight against his bonds when Gav had tried to take him against his will. Elian had killed both men before Jack could be taken advantage of. His arousal was entirely his, a fantasy triggered by his experience at the hands of Tristan's men.  
  
\---  
  
The sun was high in the sky. The fields had been sown, and watered and Jack was reclining in the shade of a nearby tree. It had been nearly another week since their small talk in the bedroom about Elian's past, and indeed, the two young men had grown closer. Elian still feared allowing Jack close to him some days but the farmlad's patience, his words of comfort, and just the raw affection that he now so openly displayed helped Elian in his recovery a lot. Then, there was also the strenuous farm work that helped him take his mind off of things for a few precious hours at a time.  
  
Jack watched in awe, sweat streaming from his forehead, as Elian hacked away at the ground in the vegetable garden. The blond was more than a little immersed in the work, and his eyebrows were knotted in concentration. It was almost as though Elian wanted to make perfectly straight rows for the plants. He was making an admirable effort at it, as well. Jack chuckled, stroking Glaise's back as the hound panted beside him.  
  
One of the new issues that seemed to have cropped up for his now wolf-like dog was that Glaise seemed to tire so much more in the heat of the sun than he used to. The hound was far more effective at coralling the sheep and keeping grazing animals in check, but all the same, he could not quite do as much as he once did. The fact puzzled Jack as both he and Elian thrived in the heat. Both young men revelled in the warmth of the sun. It scared away the insidious cold within their cores, made them feel human again.  
  
Part of the reason Elian so loved working the farm with Jack was the fact that he could remain in the sun for long periods of time. Also, with the constant hearty food that they managed with, hen one day, rabbit the next, some dried meat after that, Elian was beginning to fill out his form again. Where he had once been frightfully thin, he was now lean, well-defined, similar to Jack but not quite as slender around the shoulders.  
  
There were times when Elian could just barely catch Jack ogling him, and he was sure the platinum-haired farmlad also caught him staring as well. They were both very fairly attractive young men, and neither had had any legitimate sexual intimacy for a long time... Not that Elian was keen on having sex with anyone at the moment, or in the foreseeable future. Whenever the thought crossed his mind, of him taking Jack or Jack taking him, it always warped into the image of the man that had so defiled him.  
  
Elian shuddered at the unpleasant memory and only very nearly missed his foot on the downswing of his mattock. The blond stared at the tool mere inches from his feet, he could not imagine what would have happened if he had indeed hit his foot. Granted, the mattock was not the sharpest farming implement Jack had, but there was a considerable amount of force in it regardless. He was not very fond of the idea of losing a toe or two, not after all the pain his feet had put him through not too long ago.  
  
Elian wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted his eyes at the steadily rising sun above. For some reason, Jack had insisted that day of working the earth earlier. Perhaps the farmlad had something in mind. Elian wasn't too keen on finding out, given that he was so enjoying the mental and emotional vacation that working the garden had been giving him. He looked at the farmlad sitting in the shade of the tree. Jack deserved the break. After all, he'd been up a few hours earlier than Elian, taking care of the animals and sowing the fields.  
  
The platinum had taken to the ice much easier than Elian had anticipated... Perhaps it was because Jack had felt powerless his entire life, and now, now he had the instrument with which to defend himself, with which to put an end to the perpetual fear that his parents' heritage had thrust upon him. No longer would Jack have to fear the villagers coming. He had his ice. No longer would Jack have to worry of being hurt. He had his ice.   
  
There were days where the blond envied the farmlad of his enthusiasm when it came to his powers. Jack had been exploring every facet of his ice every chance he could... His reaction to his ice was nowhere in the realm of how Elian had reacted the day he discovered his own powers and was told he'd been cursed from birth by the gods with them. Elian had thrown a fit, screamed and despaired as a child. So much so that despite his mother's protestations he was beaten for being so unprincely in front of his brother.  
  
Elian shook his head, dispelling the bitter memory. He could not begrudge Jack the ice. As the farmlad had often argued, he believed Elian's ice to be a blessing more than a curse... A thing of beauty, that, like a rose, was not without its thorns. Elian still believed otherwise, if only for the sole reason that years of convincing himself that he was monstrous and deserved no love had made it almost insurmountably difficult to change his mind on the matter.  
  
The blond turned his eyes back to the field. Jack watched pensively as Elian returned to putting his back into the work. There was something that was sorely lacking from Elian's life, and he was sure that if the blond only allowed himself some mirth, some enjoyment, that things would be incredibly easier for him. He'd seen the looks that Elian shot him whenever he played with his ice, testing his limits, plying his art...  
  
Only recently, Elian had managed to cut himself on a sickle that Jack had accidentally knocked down and had, in a fit of inspiration, forgotten to replace. As it so happened, Jack had spent much of the day out in the sun, and had the bare minimum of his powers ready at his fingertips. Fortunately for Elian, Jack had taken to finally growing some of the herbs he needed for that panacaea that his fathers had taught him to make in his own garden. Now, the fruits of his labour were to be put to the test.  
  
Jack took the paste, applied it to the cut, and chilled the whole area with what remained of his ice. Elian had shivered. The paste, which normally, as he so distastefully remembered, burned like hell, was almost entirely soothing now, if not a little too cold. There was an instant improvement and both young men could tell. The bleeding had stopped and the flesh did not seem as sensitive as it had before the paste. It was as though the paste with Jack's frost had numbed the area enough to make the experience halfway pleasant.  
  
Jack remembered the look that Elian had fixed him with after that. It was a mixture of gratitude and wonder on the surface, as the blond was still more than a little bit in awe of Jack's proficiency at using his ice to mend things, as well as a hideous shade of envy and heavily-veiled disgust underneath. The platinum could only speculate that the sight of the ice, which Elian thought was the source of all his, and apparently the rest of the world's, woes being used to heal instead of destroy was abominable to the young blond's mind.  
  
The farmlad had, that day, resolved that he would do all in his power to at least allow Elian to see that his ice was not as evil as he thought it was, if at all. Seeing a chance to do so now, Jack picked up the shepherd's crook that was lying by his side in the shade. He'd taken quite nicely to it. It was no quarterstaff, granted, but with the right grip it seemed to be balanced like one. As he hefted the crook in his hands, it glittered in the sunlight. The frost crystals embedded in the spiral patterns of the wood made the staff quite a beauty to behold.  
  
Jack found the staff both aesthetically pleasing and practical, for not only beating and herding at the same time, but also for channeling his ice. Again, one of the unfortunate animals on the farm paid the price for Jack's discovery. He had been in the middle of using the crook to pull in a sheep when he suddenly remembered how he had incapacitated Kristoff earlier. Long story short, the sheep survived, barely hurt, but with a horrible case of the shivers.  
  
The farmlad had shown it to Elian almost ecstatically at the end of that day and pressured the blond into trying it out with his wooden practice sword. The results were fantastic and far more remarkable than Jack had anticipated. After a few tries, Elian had finally managed to get the sword to discharge the frost lightning, as Jack had taken to calling it. Feeling suddenly bold, the blond swung the sword vertically through the air, creating a crescent of frost that fanned out, growing larger and larger, before dispersing in an explosion of frost lightning that then became glittering crystals that drifted slowly to the ground.  
  
After that, Elian had dropped the sword in awe, then turned around and run away. He did not talk to Jack the entire next day, and instead spent it brooding in the room. This day, Jack told himself, Elian would do no such thing. He would be damned if he let the blond off without having some fun. The platinum conjured up a snowball in his hand, and with a mischievous smirk, leaned back and threw it at the blond as Elian was resting on the mattock's handle, having finished one row on the garden.  
  
Jack let out a loud whoop and a laugh when the snowball hit its mark. Elian blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Jack laughed at the stunned expression on the blond's face. Mirth turned to horror as the blond pitched dangerously forward and fell in a puff of dust. "Shit..." mouthed the farmlad as Glaise nudged him quite aggressively on the calf before bounding off towards the garden. A worried frown on his face, Jack chased after the hound, concerned about what he'd done to Elian.  
  
"Elian...?" asked Jack wearily as he approached the blond, sprawled in the dirt. Elian was still breathing, and far more normally than the farmlad expected. He got his first hint that something was amiss when the blond twitched. "Elian...?" Jack knelt down and was about to feel for the blond's pulse when all of a sudden, Elian flipped over, with a grin, and the platinum's face was met with a blast of frost that knocked him over onto his ass.  
  
"You messed my rows up!" yelled the blond with a measure of indignity and mirth in his voice before laughing. The way Elian laughed was so open but lacking the musical quality that Jack always thought it would have despite having heard it before. The platinum couldn't help but smile. "And you got dirt on my clothes!" Elian tried to conjure up a snowball as well. He managed and threw it at Jack.  
  
" _My_  clothes, mind you, Elian" said Jack, cheekily. Halfway through the air the snowball grew spikes, and Jack's eyes grew equally wide, barely managing to roll out of the way of the snowball before it hit the ground. "What the fuck was that?" Elian grinned sheepishly and apologetically while conjuring up another snowball. He threw it again at Jack. This time it turned into solid ice as it sailed through the air. Again, Jack had barely enough time to evade it. "Elian!"  
  
"Sorry!" said the blond apologetically, ducking to avoid the snowball that Jack lobbed at him in turn. "I'll get it right this time!" said Elian, twisting out of the way of another and jumping over the one that came after it. "This is ridiculous! It's summer, we're adults, and we're having a snowball fight in the middle of the day!" protested Elian, running over and almost tripping on the mattock as Jack threw three snowballs at him in quick succession, managing to land the third on Elian's shoulder.  
  
"Doesn't mean we can't have fun, huh?" said Jack, throwing another snowball at the retreating Elian. Elian summoned his will, trying to suppress the destructive and violent tendencies of his ice, in order to conjure up a snowball. He managed. This time he held it in his hand to make sure no unwanted protrusions, shells, or deadly blades appeared. None seemed to be forthcoming so he lobbed it at Jack who was giving chase, with Glaise not far behind.  
  
As the snowball sailed through the air, Elian watched it and for the first time noticed the sky growing dark with clouds heavy with water. They were far from ominuous, but nonetheless startling for a hot summer day. As the snowball made its way towards Elian's pursuer, it doubled in size, then doubled again, and again, and again, until it was twice the size of Jack's head. "Holy shit!" yelled the farmboy, digging in his heels in an attempt to stop and duck.  
  
Too late! The massive snowball hit him right in the face to the sound of a gasp from Elian followed by a fit of mad giggling as the blond realized that the massive snowball was just that, massive and harmless as fresh snow. Jack had fallen over on Glaise who was now whining under the weight of his master. "What the fuck, Elian?!" growled the farmlad playfully as he brushed the snow from his face, hair, and, truth be told, every part of his upper body.  
  
The blond couldn't stop giggling enough to give Jack a straightforward answer, even if he had one. It was almost as though Jack had awakened the child inside Elian, the child that had been locked away, imprisoned, tortured and not allowed out for his entire life, the child capable of mirth and joy and wonder, the child that believed he was a monster in the same way that he believed he was a knight, in a playful childish manner that spoke only of innocence with no guilt or remorse.   
  
As Elian leaned over his knees, laughing and desperately trying to catch his breath to respond to Jack, a snowball hit him. And then another. And another. And another after that. Each one did little to calm the long-suppressed guffawing that was now escaping from his gut. When the laughing finally stopped, mercifully, Elian straightened right into a snowball to his face. In revenge, Elian hurled another one at Jack. Another of the ones that doubled in size as it sailed through the air.  
  
"Elian! That's not fair!" protested the farmlad, just barely twisting out of the way of the snowball that crashed into the garden fence, knocking a good portion of it down. Elian winced. He'd have to fix that later. In the meantime, there was a war going on. The blond looked up and snow was falling from the sky. It was a gentle snowfall, and beautiful by every right. Elian fell over when a snowball hit his exposed neck. "Stop it with whatever the fuck those were!"  
  
"I don't know what I'm doing!" yelled Elian, scrambling to his feet and lobbing another snowball at Jack. This one still grew as it flew, but this time it hit an unsuspecting Glaise who was sticking his tongue out to catch a snowflake. The dog yelped and whined under the considerable weight of the snow before managing to break free and shake it off. Undaunted, Elian threw another at Jack. This one grew to such an extent that the poor farmboy was not going to be able to evade it.  
  
"Elian...!" bellowed Jack with more than a little fear as the snowball -- now half his size -- got inexorably nearer. Just then the wind picked up and Jack found himself soaring haphazardly, tumbling every which way, into the sky. The snowball, predictably missed, and again crashed into poor, innocent Glaise who was just about to bound playfully after Elian.  
  
Jack screamed in sheer terror as he spun through the air, carried and buffeted by a strong northern wind. "Eliaaan!" he shouted from up above, causing a fair amount of distress and alarm to the blond below. "AAH! Help me!"   
  
"What do you want me to do?" Elian yelled up at Jack as he threw another snowball upwards in the hopes of maybe knocking the farmlad out of the air. Jack watched the snowball approach and with a sigh mused that Elian seriously needed to cease the exponentially expanding snowballs as this one heading towards him was about as far wide as he was tall. Instinctively, Jack wished the wind to take him left. It did.  
  
When Jack had finished tumbling and turning in mid-air, he realized that he had more control over the wind than he had first thought. It was almost as though the wind followed his commands... most of them, at least. With a sly grin that Elian did not miss, Jack willed the wind to bring him closer to Elian.  
  
The farmlad hefted his crook in his hands and pointed it at Elian. Seeing the mischievous gleam in Jack's eyes, Elian turned tail and ran just in time to avoid the crackling bolts of frosted lightning that shot out from the staff as Jack swooped down on where Elian had been mere moments earlier. "How are you doing that?!" protested the blond, jaw slack at the sharp protrusions of ice on the ground where Jack had aimed his powers.   
  
"I don't know what I'm doing!" yelled Jack in a sing-song, mocking voice at Elian despite genuinely knowing nothing about why or how he was flying. Feeling cheated by Jack's unfair advantage -- as though his expanding snowballs weren't much the same -- Elian tried to summon a wind of his own. He was met with some success and was just beginning to lift off the ground over the vegetable garden when he felt a sudden weight on his back.   
  
It was Glaise who had managed to free himself from the pile of snow that Elian had buried him under. The hound was barking playfully at the blond and licking his face as the assault of snowballs continued raining down from Jack who was exuberant in his flight. The farmlad's peals of laughter and delight were clear and crisp in the cool air as he swooped and soared and glided through it on the back of the northern wind.  
  
With a hand he managed to free from Glaise's weight on top of him, Elian shot a bolt of frost lightning at Jack. The bolt found its mark and hit Jack square in the face, sending him out of balance and careening through the air. Elian gasped as he watched Jack tumble screaming in terror through the air before smacking with an audible and frankly horrifying thud on the barn wall. Both the blond and Glaise froze and watched as the farmlad tumbled to the ground from where he had impacted the barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there reader! Hope you enjoyed this extra-long chapter. :D
> 
> This was a very slice-of-life kind of chapter, but I really do hope you liked a more intimate look into not only Jack, but also Elian. As it stands, at the end of this chapter, it's been little over two weeks since Elian was raped, and things are heading right back in a dangerous direction. What do you think so far?
> 
> Oh, and do comment and tell me what you think of Hans and Andrew. :D (not to mention the fact that Jack's a kinky fucker!(
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your feedback. And here's a preview of next week's show:
> 
> _"Alright, little one. What's your name?" asked the commander, stripping off her gauntlet and extending a hand for the child._
> 
> _"Liana" said the little girl, a stern clip not unlike Gwen's in her voice. The smile on the commander's face broadened. She had a soft spot for children, especially those who most resembled her back in her childhood. "You're not him. Where is he?" demanded the girl, grabbing Gwen's face with her little hands as though to drive home the point._
> 
> _"Where is who?"_


	14. Vengeance

Eyes wide in shock and fear and disgust at himself for what he thought he'd done, Elian scrambled to his feet and dashed for the barn. The clouds above cleared up, and the sun shone brightly down on the earth. As the golden rays filtered through the dispersing clouds, they cleared away the ice which evaporated into frost crystals wherever the light touched it.  
  
Elian jumped over the far side of the garden fence and ran towards the barn. Jack was there, lying sprawled on his side. The farmboy's eyes were squeezed shut and he was trembling ever so slightly. Elian ran over, repeating apologies as he went. He knelt by Jack. "Jack? Are you alright? I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." said the blond, eyes brimming with tears.  
  
"Am I on the ground yet?" asked the farmboy weakly, trying to force a chuckle through his lips. The words came out far less humourously than Jack had intended, and the chuckle sounded more like a strangled cough. Jack rolled over onto his back, a stupid grin plastered on his face despite the nauseating, terror-inducing careen into the side of the barn wall.   
  
"Yes" answered Elian, a worried look crossing his face. Jack cracked open an eye, and one glance at Elian's face wiped the grin clean off of his face. A somber look crossed his face, then an uncomfortable one, then, an almost guilty one. The tracks of tears on Elian's cheeks were unmistakeable. Jack beat himself mentally for giving Elian such a scare. Sure, tumbling out of the sky had been terrifying, but fortunately the wind had made sure he didn't land too roughly. The last thing Elian needed was more guilt plagueing his conscience.  
  
Jack pursed his lips, not sure what to say. He knew an apology would only make Elian feel worse. A long silence followed afterwards, punctuated only by Glaise's panting as the dog approached and lay on his belly beside Elian, and the ragged rhythmic breathing of Jack. Suddenly, with a cheeky smile on his face, one lost entirely on Elian, Jack asked "Am I dead?"   
  
"No!" Elian yelled in horror, for once forgetting his apprehension about physical contact when he grabbed Jack's shoulders and shook the farmlad. The blond laid his head on the farmboy's chest, making colour rush to Jack's cheeks. Elian was warm, despite the cold of his ice, and having Elian where he was felt so absolutely right the platinum could not help the smile on his face from widening.  
  
"I would never forgive myself if I killed you, Jack..." whispered the blond, meaning every word that he said. It was the plain and absolute truth. Jack was the one person that had shown him kindness throughout, despite his powers, despite his past, despite his preference of partners, but most of all, despite the danger that he brought with him. Jack had been there through all of that and if he brought any deliberate harm as detestable as death to the farmlad, Elian was not going to forgive himself, no matter how many eternities passed.  
  
"Don't worry, Elian... Don't worry..." he cooed, weakly stroking the back of the blond's head. He marvelled at the soft strands of pale golden hair, at how soft they were despite the squalor Elian had lived in for so long. The blond's locks were a pleasure to play with, Jack mused. The farmboy stopped when he felt Elian stiffen up under his ministrations. He let a soft sigh escape his lips. Elian was still having nightmares, even in the waking world.  
  
Jack shook his head when Elian opened his mouth to speak. "Don't worry, Elian" he repeated, firmly. He splayed his arms and legs to the side, letting the exhilaration flood back. A wide grin split the farmboy's face. The last thing Elian needed was even more sadness. They had been having so much fun! For once, Jack was able to see more of the true Elian, and he wasn't about to let that opportunity pass.  
  
"That. Was. Insane!" said the farmboy, cracking his other eye open and seeing the now-clear and bright sky framing Elian's beautiful face and bright blue eyes. He took one good long look at that face that would forever be burnt into his memory. His heart fluttered at the sight. "That was fun! Let's do that again!" said Jack, giddy at the prospect. Sure, it stung quite a bit, but he'd managed to brace himself before impact, and the fact of the matter was, tumbling chaotically through the air was exhilarating.  
  
Glaise yipped happily and padded over to Jack, licking the platinum's face. "You are insane, Jack Frost" said Elian, shaking his head at the farmboy's boundless enthusiasm. In truth, the prospect terrified him. The last time he'd had any 'fun' someone had been hurt, almost fatally. The child within him went back under lock and key now that the snowball fight was over. "You almost died!" said the blond in a stern, almost princely, motherly tone.   
  
"That's where the fun is!" said Jack, missing the twinge of fear that had made itself manifest in Elian's words. The farmboy called up the wind again, managing to get himself back on his feet without much work. When the gale subsided, however, he staggered dangerously. He felt tired, like his arms and legs were lead. His bones ached, and the part of him that had hit the barn wall felt almost swollen. Elian jumped up and supported Jack. It was almost like the farmlad was drunk. Jack supposed he should not have been surprised. Using his ice often drained him somewhat and with all he'd unleashed, he found it only reasonable that he was so fatigued.  
  
Jack met Elian's eyes but saw no humour there, only concern and fear. Jack's smile softened and he raised a hand to the blond's face. "I've lived through harsh winters and dry summers, you didn't really think crashing into the barn wall could kill me, did you?" Jack asked.  
  
"I... yes, I did!" protested Elian, shifting to support Jack's weight in a more comfortable manner. The farmlad was, despite not being entirely heavy, still a burden to bear, especially after all the play they had just done. Elian was himself a little tired. "I really wouldn't have forgiven myself if you died on my account..."  
  
Jack's eyes softened as it dawned on him that Elian was being entirely too serious and that the emotional plight that his little crash had put the blond through was very much real. No admonishment from the farmboy would change the fact that Elian still blamed himself for every misfortune that happened. He should've known. After all, Elian was still harbouring a lot of guilt for having hurt his younger brother all those years ago. "I didn't realize... I'm so sorry, Elian..." said Jack, rubbing the blond's cheek in slow gentle circles with his thumb.  
  
"It's alright..." Elian said, clutching Jack's hand and closing his eyes. The blond sighed sadly, the breath escaping his lips in a soft whisper. "Just... I... It scared me..." he told Jack earnestly. "I... I won't let it happen again, Jack." The blond tightend his grip on Jack's hand before opening his eyes again.  
  
Jack looked up at Elian and whispered to him "You know, Elian, you should try forgiving yourself sometimes..."  
  
A small bitter smile twisted Elian's lips. "Maybe... Alright. Come on. Let's get you something to eat." Jack straightened himself so that Elian wouldn't have to support his weight as much, and together the two young men walked into the farmhouse.  
  
\---  
  
"I feel like we're getting closer now..." said the young woman, spreading gauntleted fingers over the map of the realm, tracing the crescent that they'd followed in their search for the young prince. "Really close..." she continued, a small bittersweet smile gracing her face as she let one of her fingers drift towards what would have been the centre of the circle had the crescent been one. Little did anyone in their entire damnable party know that where she was pointing at was exactly where Jack's farmstead was.  
  
"It's been years, Gwen..." said the other captain of their small contingent. "Years..." he ran his hands through his now-white hair. There were days when he missed his old strawberry blond... He thought he had looked far more dashing and probably had more of a chance with Gwen back then. That being said, the pale-haired woman did not seem much interested in the least even back before her hare-brained obsession developed.  
  
"Which is why I think we're close, Bran..." said the woman, staring out of the flap of cloth-like ice that served as a window into the commanders' tent at the winter storm raging outside. "He's near. I can feel it in my bones..." Well, there was that, and the fact that they could feel the call of the shard of the Coldsnap that they had brought with them growing ever stronger with each passing day as they continued.  
  
Was it truly possible that they would soon find the prince that they had spent the last long while searching for? It seemed very likely. If anything, Bran hoped that they would. He hoped against hope. They'd suffered much and seen more hardship than he'd ever cared to imagine. It was about time for their little troupe of soldiers to return home to Vamara. What little remained of them, at least.  
  
"How do you know he'll love you back?" asked Branden, watching the candle sitting on a nearby table flicker. The heat was enticing. Gods knew neither of them nor their men had spent any time with a good hearth in years. Their new physiology demanded warmth, but with their sheer numbers and densely-packed living situation, they leeched it from the environment so quickly it was simply not about to happen.  
  
There was a hopeful gleam in Gwen's eyes as she regarded her partner in command. "I just do, Bran. I just do." Yet, perhaps, more disturbingly, despite the glowing hope and positivity in the woman's eyes, there was a desperation just barely palpable in them as well. Gwen was a changed woman, so was Bran, but the journey to these unknown lands had changed her most of all.  
  
Where Bran held on to the idea of finally finding the young prince and returning home to Vamara, Gwen, in her emotional instability brought on by the loss of some of their closest friends along the way, had latched on to the idea of finding Elian and making him hers. It was a dangerous idea. A dangerous game to play. Bran could only hope that the woman he loved would not do anything rash if and when she found herself rejected.  
  
\---  
  
Jack was feeling a lot better after that meal... and half an hour in front of the blazing hearth despite the heat of the day. He felt a lot more... human, so to speak. He had gratefully thanked Elian for the care and made sure the blond ate his fill as well. Elian, after fully recovering from all his injuries, had taken to eating like a bird, pecking at the food despite the evident hunger that Jack could see in his actions. The farmlad could not exactly say why Elian seemed so tentative about receiving more help from Jack, but he supposed it was because he thought he was being a burden. He knew enough about Elian to know that it was a likely thought that had crossed the blond's mind.  
  
The entire thing had manifested the week after Elian had been... Jack couldn't even bring himself to speak or think the word, it only filled him with disgust, anger, and protectiveness for the blond. Elian was sitting across the table, eating in his slow, almost-delicate manner. Jack balled his fists underneath the table, away from Elian's view. How those men could even deign to wish such evil on Elian was beyond him. The blond was a broken man: afraid, and uncertain of nearly everything.   
  
Elian was attacked, and had reacted summarily, but those men had wanted nothing but to kill him. Yet, even after, he still blamed himself for letting Jack get hurt, kept the nightmares he had about being taken against his will to himself, and considered himself a monster for killing the men that had attempted to take his and Jack's life. The farmboy would never really quite understand why the blond was so bent on painting himself as a villain. In truth, though, part of it was because it was all Elian had ever found himself being called.  
  
Monster, faggot, creature, all those were names he'd been called at one point or another. He was the villain. Almost always. That was the way his life had been for so long that he'd accepted it as the truth about himself, and rejected any evidence to the contrary. He was afraid of being called a monster, but believed himself to be one. Even so, he was yet more afraid of being told he was anything but. He was afraid of not knowing who or what he was.  
  
Jack leveled a meaningful gaze at Elian, but the blond was staring at his plate and picking at the food. Gods knew what Elian was thinking as he intermittently shoved morsels of food in his mouth. The platinum had a sneaking suspicion that Elian was probably brooding over what he still believed was Jack's accidental near-fatal crash into the barn wall. There were limits to what Jack knew he could do for the blond, and there were nights when he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, despairing over how he could help him.  
  
The farmlad had discovered the healing, mending powers of his ice, his ability to fix things, but the wounds that Elian bore ran deep, and were things that Jack could not fix. He blinked away tears in his eyes, and a smile replaced the morose sadness that had set itself in his face as he watched Elian pick at his food. He'd just realized that the entire incident with the snowball fight not too long ago had brought out something in Elian that Jack knew deep within was the key to healing those cracks in the blond's heart.  
  
Jack remembered the euphoria, the absolute joy that Elian had on his face when he threw those snowballs at the farmlad. It was almost as though all his demons, those phantoms that haunted him, had been dispelled. Jack tapped his fingers on his thighs, feet also doing the same on the floor. He was getting excited. He'd finally had a breakthrough. There was something he could do for Elian, at least before the other boy left.  
  
The platinum jumped to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over, a grin splitting his face. Elian looked up, a mixture of morose brooding and confusion at Jack's sudden happiness. "Jack?" asked the blond slowly, raising his eyes to Jack with a quizzical expression. The only response he managed to get was a face-splitting grin, leaving him even more confused than he had been when Jack had suddenly jumped out of his chair. "What...?" Before he could finish his sentence Jack had dashed off and Elian heard the footsteps as the farmlad went up the stairs.  
  
Elian was still confused about what Jack was going on about when he was unceremoniously dragged from the kitchen out into the living room. He had _just_  finished his meal. The farmlad dashed back into the kitchen. The blond flinched at the ruckus that could only have been the platinum rummaging in the pantry. Jack was being more than a little enigmatic, which Elian honestly found to be a fair bit disturbing. He had not seen the farmlad quite this exuberant, but the positive energy was absolutely infusing the air. There was a small intrigued smile tugging at Elian's lips.  
  
Jack reemerged with a wicker basket slung around his arm. Elian could not see what was in it, but he presumed it was food. The blond did not know how long he could hold it in before he had to tell Jack. Elian didn't want to be eating so much. He was concerned that he might deplete Jack's supplies for the winter. "Jack..." he began, but the farmlad waved his comment away dismissively before he could continue. There was a sense of urgency, of excitement that was palpable in the air around Jack.  
  
"But..." Jack grabbed his hand and began insistently tugging him towards the door. "Jack! Listen to me!" The farmlad finally turned and fixed him with an almost impatient look, releasing his arm and letting it drop to his side. The blond scuffled in his spot, bringing his hands to his chest. "I... I think you should stop feeding me so much..." Jack's smile slipped and a look of hurt took its place. It stung Elian. "I-I was just thinking that maybe you needed to save the food for the winter..."  
  
Jack shook his head and smiled at the blond. There was the answer to his question. "Look, Elian... I know you mean well, but... you have to trust me. A little more. That's all I ask." Jack said, extending his hand towards Elian, a physical manifestation of his verbal plea. "I lived with my father in this home for years. We never ran out, and he ate a lot. I can... handle myself, Elian. You don't have to protect me, not anymore."  
  
Elian tentatively extended a hand, hesitating at the last moment before taking Jack's in his own. He still felt bad for being such a drain on the farmlad's resources, but Jack was right. Elian had to trust him. After all, Jack seemed to trust the blond an immense amount, and more than he believed he deserved. He looked up at Jack. The farmlad smiled at him, genuinely, and pulled him through the doorway. "Alright. Alright. Where are we going?"  
  
"To the place where it all began..." said Jack, a pensive look shading his face for a moment. "For me, at least. Come on. I also have a promise to keep, and we don't have all day." Elian opened his mouth to ask what on earth Jack was talking about, but the farmlad placed a finger on his lips, putting an end to any and all further inquiry. Elian shook his head and instead smiled at Jack. The platinum smiled back and picked up the pack near the door and shouldered it before leading Elian out and closing the house.  
  
Glaise was already outside, panting in his characteristic manner, his head tilted curiously to the side. Jack shook his head at his faithful companion. The hound was always where he needed to be, it seemed. "Come on" said Jack, pulling on Elian. Together the two went around to the barn where Jack picked up his staff -- the farmboy and the shepherd's crook had become nearly inseparable -- and around towards the back of the farmhouse.  
  
Then, spotting what he was looking for, Jack pulled Elian towards the treeline. Both very nearly tripped over the frosthound, who apparently thought that it was that exact moment that would be the perfect time to run around their legs. If not for a gust of wind from Jack that just barely set them back on their feet, the two would've been sprawled on the ground, thanks, in full, to Glaise. The platinum frowned at the hound before steadying himself and Elian on their feet.  
  
The two exchanged brief smiles and shook their heads at Glaise's boundless enthusiasm. Elian was about to pull his hand from Jack's, attacked by a sudden surge of panic, when the grip became less firm and more tender, more caring. The blond looked up into the farmlad's eyes, surprised. There was genuine care and concern written in those once-tawny icy blue eyes. Elian found himself relaxing, even melting into the gentle grasp, and allowing Jack to lead him further on by his hand.  
  
The two stopped before a tree. One that, at first, Elian found strangely mundane. One that, given just the brief moment he was to examine it, was nothing of note. It wasn't until Jack had spread the blanket on the ground and sat on it, beckoning for Elian to do the same, that the blond noticed what made the tree so special. There, carved about halfway up the trunk, deep into the bark of the tree, was an old symbol. An ancient crest.  
  
The last he'd seen that insignia, Vard had still been alive, and both he and Lady Elesyne's eldest were looking back at the mysterious woman's home. The symbol had hung there, above the archway of the icy door. A circle with three horns, the emblem of the old gods, of the old faith, of a time when Elian and Jack's kind were not so viciously hunted and harmed. The blond stopped in reverie, the ice in his veins almost singing out in adjulation to the carving on the tree.  
  
Elian was a creature of the old world, and now Jack was one too. For the first time in his life, the farmboy felt the symbol he painstakingly deepened each year take on a deeper, more profound meaning. As his ice sang and danced in front of this symbol of the power of the old gods, that self-same insignia became less a mundane mark left so that Jack would remember where he was found, and more a representation of what he had become. Jack looked to his side, and saw that Elian was slightly leaning forward, drawn to the innate power of the crest. He spoke, and all at once, the thrumming of commune with the gods of the earth, ceased. "This is where it all began..."  
  
Jack waved his hand and frost and snow washed over the treeline. The sky immediately above them turned gray and heavy with snowfall. Large fat flakes drifted down on the gentle breeze that then began to blow. Jack shivered. He'd not expected the amount of control he'd just demonstrated over his powers, or the weather, for that matter. The exertion drained the heat from his limbs. He'd only wanted to conjure up some snow. He turned pale, almost as pale as Elian had been when they'd first met.  
  
"I'd always come out to see this tree during the first frost..." said Jack, eyes glued to the tree, the snow clinging to its branches and leaves, the white climbing the cracks in its bark, the frost nestled in its boughs. "I wanted to know what exactly was so... special... about it. That I was left here of all places..." Elian turned and looked at Jack, upon whose face a single tear was trickling down. Swallowing apprehension, Elian squeezed the farmboy's hand in a gesture of comfort and support.  
  
Jack smiled genuinely, at Elian before wiping the tear from his face with the back of his hand. "Anyway, enough with the... sentimentality," he said with a chuckle, turning his body to face Elian. "I thought you might want to see the place" continued the platinum with a sheepish grin and a chuckle.  
  
"I  _did_  want to see this... Thank you, Jack..." Elian said, tilting his head at the tree, curious, and feeling a twinge of sadness in his heart for the boy on his other side. His own parents had been terrible to him as a child, but at least, he had known them. "How..." he began, but stopped himself, blushing. Perhaps the question was too personal. Jack nodded at him, squeezing his hand, telling him to go ahead with his question. Elian breathed deeply, avoiding Jack's eyes. "How does it feel... Not knowing your true parents?"  
  
"But I do, Elian" said Jack, softly. "I do know my true parents. My fathers. They raised me..." The blond blushed and drew his face to his feet and releasing Jack's hand to embrace his knees. The platinum shook his head gently, a small smile playing on his lips. "My birth parents though... Honestly, Elian? I don't remember them, not at all..." His face buried between his knees, Elian's eyes widened in surprise. "Not even a shred. Not even the slightest moment of warmth, not the softest laugh, the smallest kiss..."  
  
"There was a time when I wanted to know why I was left behind... I felt like I was so disgusting to my birth parents that they had to throw me away..." Jack shook his head. "I realized later that it just made no sense to worry too much about that. I would never find out, and I didn't need that cloying sadness on me... so I let it go..."  
  
"I blamed myself for it, and there are some nights when I still blame myself for why my birth parents didn't keep me..." Jack looked meaningfully at Elian, who had raised his head to look at Jack. "But I forgave myself for it. I had to. Otherwise... life would've been a much heavier burden to bear."  
  
Elian nodded in understanding, blinking away tears that had welled up in his eyes. Again, Jack was making a very sage point. He  _did_  perhaps have to forgive himself for a few things, ones that he had no control over, that he had no chance of ever getting redemption for... He smiled at Jack, eyes clear of the sudden emotion that had welled up in him. "But that's not why I took you here..." said Jack slowly. Elian raised an eyebrow. And then he was hit in the face with a snowball.  
  
"Jack!" spluttered the blond, wiping the dredges of snow on his face away. The platinum was on his back, rolling around in laughter. "Well, I'll show you..." Elian summoned a snowball of his own, but Jack hurriedly sat up and swatted the blond's hand away.  
  
"I was just making sure you were paying attention..." he said cheekily. The blond frowned at him. "...Aaand that was for smacking me against the barn wall." Elian blushed and averted his gaze. "I was wondering if you might... maybe... want to go back to the pond today..." The widening of Elian's eyes and the slight gape of the blond's mouth in both surprise and genuine happiness was all the answer Jack needed.  
  
All the same, he quite appreciated having Elian press up against him, when the blond lunged at him and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Almost teary-eyed with joy, Elian whispered "Yes, yes I would..." in Jack's ear as he trembled in excitement. The farmlad wasted very little time, throwing his own arms around Elian and bringing the lithe blond closer.   
  
His entire body thrummed with heat from the close proximity, despite the fact that neither of the two had any more innate heat left to them. It seemed that simply being together stoked a fire that fed their ice, regardless of what was going on around them. It was a few minutes later that the watery-eyed Elian withdrew from the hug, pushing Jack away gently, and trying to hide the redness on his cheeks. "I..." The blond folded his hands at his thighs. "Sorry..."  
  
"Don't be dumb, Elian" said Jack, before throwing another snowball at Elian's face and bolting to his feet with the wicker basket to avoid retribution.  
  
\---  
  
There was a small village ahead, and as was normal, scouts returned, reporting that everyone in the village was holed up in their homes, fervently praying to whatever gods they believed in for the winter storm to pass. Every gods-fearing villager was absolutely terrified as both snow and sleet rained down on their village when summer was just around the corner. A winter storm just as the crops were beginning to grow? Blasphemy, said many, when they saw the thick, dark approaching clouds, but there was no denying their truth. From the howling gale to the thick fat snowflakes that drifted down from the heavens, the storm was as indubitable as the rising of the sun.  
  
Gwen watched sternly from the back of her horse as the squires hammered the massive tent-pegs into the ground. They were little more than massive icicles, and the mallets themselves were just iron barely held together by ice. It had been a long time since they had been at a major city, and even then, they had been unable to take all the supplies they needed. Truth of the matter was, that a winter storm tended to terrify people beyond reason, and they were just as likely to be chased out of cities as welcomed, because of the storm that they brought with them.  
  
Gwen watched as one of the mallets shattered under the force of the impact, sending the unfortunate squire, and a couple hundred fragments of ice and iron, sailing through the air. Their company was at the end of its lease on sanity. Food was scarce, heat was even more so, and their essential tools were running low. It was a wonder they had survived for so long. If anything, the ice was good for replacing weapons, albeit temporarily.  
  
Fastened around Gwen's waist was an ice claymore, rough and admittedly needed more refining, but it had an edge and it was the best that the blacksmith-turned-icesmith with the small company could manage. Her own precious family heirloom claymore was in her packs somewhere, tenderly wrapped, but hideously dull. A good two weeks into their journey, her, and everyone else's, whetstones had shattered into many pieces. The porous stone did not do well in the constant freeze that accompanied the soldiers.  
  
If they did not find the young prince Calland soon, Gwen was sure that they faced dissolution, if not mutiny. The men, and few women, were tired, hungry, and homesick. If not for the fact that she was so entirely convinced that Elian would fall for her and that she would get to become Queen of Vamara, Gwen was sure she would have also given up many years past. Nevertheless, there was no time for that now, not after years of hardship.  
  
They  _will_  find the Crown Prince. They  _will_  restore him to his rightful place on the throne Vamara. Gwen  _will_  be the queen of that fragment of the old empire. This was the mantra that she had repeated to herself each day for the last few years. Perhaps the hard road had twisted her mind, convinced her so utterly that Elian would fall for her, instead of dealing with the cold bitter fact that they were surviving on the bitter flesh of the few horses they had remaining.  
  
Nevertheless, there was a new town up ahead. If anything, they would find new tools, and new farm animals to eat. Barring that, they had already stooped to cannibalism on days when the settlements had been far in between, and the woods far too lean for their company of little less than a hundred strong. The villagers themselves would bolster their food supplies for some time.  
  
Gwen shook her head as the poor squire was dragged off with a bleeding temple. One of the physicians would take care of him. She dismounted from her horse and walked over to where the squire had fallen. The peg was barely even half-driven into the ground. The commander sighed and reached into a nearby chest for one of their other mallets before taking a swing of her own at the peg. The other squires were just finishing.  
  
They all looked at her, scuffling with unease on their feet, as she swung the mallet down on the peg. She paid them no heed. It wasn't until Bran came and told them to sod off that the boys ran off in different directions. Gwen's partner in command walked up to her, though stopping at a safe distance. No one wanted to be near one of those mallets when they were swung. He looked into the distance, where the trail of the squire being dragged off was being filled in by the falling snow. "Another one?"  
  
Silence extended between the two, punctuated only by the dull thudding of the mallet on the ice. It was only when the peg was fully embedded in the ground that Gwen faced Bran, leaning on the hammer. She was flushed, and her skin had taken on a more human sheen. As soon as she stopped the strenuous task, though, her pallor began to creep back in. "Can't really blame the poor fuckers."  
  
Bran shook his head. They couldn't. "We're down to our last two spares, Bran. This one, and another in the chest. If we don't get any iron here, we're fucked." Gwen was never one for figures. Bran was, but their situation was so deplorable that it did not need a master of numbers to figure out that they were well and truly screwed. "What bad news do you have for me, now?"  
  
"Couldn't we make mallets from ice? We make swords from it, why not fucking mallets?" asked the captain, removing his helmet and its almost-bare plumes from his head. The constant gale that accompanied their small contingent had long since stripped the fine, dyed horsehair that once made up the tuft that ran the length of the helm. Gwen had one of those once, but she lost it in their first river crossing. It wasn't so much that it was carried downstream, but the fact that it fell off of her head and was then promptly frozen in over four feet of ice.  
  
"It's more complicated than you think" retorted the woman, catching her breath as she leaned on the mallet. "I talked with Yres, and he said that it's not about the hardness of the things, it's about the weight. Iron is great for mallets because it's heavy. He showed me that if I wanted an ice mallet as good as the iron ones, it would have to be as large as my head." Gwen shook her head and straightened. "News?"  
  
Bran sighed. Just their luck that the one thing they had to their advantage would not work. "Well, two more of the men died last night. Apparently they had not been eating, giving their rations to the younger men. The reversals vanished into the darkness last night. Aidan, Ian, Deaglan, and the lovers Deilon and Eiros. Those boys were quite sweet..." said Bran, more than a little fondly. Reversals as they were, and as ingrained the hatred for their kind was before Andrew took the throne, he had learned that the men in their company were pleasant, and not at all as abominable as the priests had them believing.  
  
Truth be told, on many a drunken night before they were called upon to search for Elian, inebriated out of frustration of making no headway in his pursuit of Gwen, Bran had gone to the lovers who were more than happy to welcome him into their bed. He'd never been pressured into taking it up the ass, but he'd buried his own cock into both Deilon and Eiros. The two certainly knew how to please a man.   
  
"Seven more men gone, Gwen" said Bran, a hint of sadness and resignation on his voice. Their company had dwindled a lot, through the years. "I do hope you're right that we're close." Bran donned his helmet again and swung his body over the saddle. "I'll put together a small search party. We'll try and find the reversals." With that Gwen's partner-in-command turned 'round and spurred the horse on.  
  
"Fuck" muttered Gwen under her breath. They were almost at their breaking point. This did not bode well. "Fuck" she said again as she led her horse to where the others were tied. Just what they needed. Two men dead, and five men gone. As if morale wasn't already low enough. The litany of curses that dropped from her mouth did not ebb even as she made her way into the commanders' tent and snarled at the squire inside that was putting everything in place. She stalked over to the table and the map spread over it. She banged her fist against the wood that had surprisingly enough survived the cold much better than anything else they had. "I will find you, Elian Calland, and you  _will_  love me and make me queen."  
  
\---  
  
Elian wiped the crumbs from the corners of his teeth and brushed them from the breeches he'd borrowed from Jack. "You did what?!" he exclaimed in surprise at what the farmboy had just said. They had spent the last hour or so just eating and talking, and it was surprisingly normal. There was a point a few minutes into their conversation that Elian's mind had been so confounded by the normalcy of the situation that it had begun to make him paranoid. He was expecting either divine retribution for daring to be as happy and relaxed as he seemed to be, or malicious men, and probably bandits, to burst through the trees to do harm to them. None of those came to pass, and, eventually, Elian learned to accept that for the moment, at least, there would be peace in his tumultuous life.  
  
"Yeah..." said Jack, blushing despite the guffaws that were escaping his lips. "I was young, and stupid, and  _very_  spiteful." He laughed, taking a drink from the water skin before passing it to Elian. The blond shook his head and took a swig. Elian didn't think it was something Jack would even dare to think about doing, much less actually do it! Nevertheless, from the sound of it, Jack seemed to be saying the absolute truth. Judging from the redness on his face, it seemed like something that the brunet was definitely embarrassed about.  
  
"Who does that, Jack?" asked Elian, sincerely, but not without good humour in his voice. For the moment, at least, the phantom hands of his rapists -- numerous as they had been over the years -- were nonexistent. "I mean, that was a horrible thing to do!" Glaise barked, as though understanding what they were talking about. Elian suspected that if the hound did indeed understand, that he was barking not out of protestation, but out of pride for his master and companion.  
  
"Do what? Piss in a keg of ale? I don't know, Elian. Me, apparently" laughed the farmboy, running his hands through his now-platinum hair. It was a welcome change of pace, just being able to chat with Elian like this. For once, neither of them were haunted by the many demons of their pasts, though, if they were, only by the most comical of them.   
  
"I was angry, alright. I had just gone out to gather my favourite berries but Nyko would have none of it. I knew that they had just started brewing their first batch of ale, having finally decided to give it a try, so I went and had a go at it" said Jack with a sheepish grin. "Gods..." said the farmboy, watching a tear from the laughter from the corner of his eye.   
  
"When my fathers found out the next day, Nyko gave me the beating of a lifetime..." Jack laughed, and then paused, a morose expression briefly shadowing his face, chasing away the mirth that had been there but moments ago. The cheer returned almost instantly, but not before Elian had had the chance to see it depart. "I swear" he said, gesturing with his hand at Elian. "I could not sit down for a week, and I had to sleep on my stomach. How about you, Elian?"  
  
"Me? What?" The laughter slipped almost instantly from Elian's face at the question. He suspected Jack was asking if he'd done anything along the same vein as his mischief, but in truth, Elian could not think of anything  _he_  did of his own volition. If anything, he'd been pressured into almost reckless roguery by his younger brother. He'd never truly done anything even remotely close to what Jack did. He had been far too afraid of the Inquisitor as a child, and for good reason.  
  
"What's the most mischievous thing you did when you were younger?" asked Jack, genuinely curious. He wanted to know more about Elian, who he was, and where he came from. There were just so many things the farmboy wanted to learn about the beautiful creature of winter that had managed to find his way into Jack's life.  
  
The blond could recall on many occasions the headaches Andrew had caused the castle staff. One of his younger brother's pranks involved a barrowload of horse dung dumped in the middle of the throne room just before the palace doors opened to supplication. As for Elian himself, he really couldn't recall anything but that  _one_  time. "I don't know... I really... Well..." Elian's blush deepened. He wanted to be able to relate to Jack, but it seemed that beyond their mutual fear they shared very little in their pasts. "Well... there was this one night when I snuck into the palace kitchens and stole a piece of cake..."  
  
Jack leaned in, intrigued. The act itself was pretty mundane. He'd snuck into the pantry more than once and pilfered a snack or two in the middle of the night. It wasn't really a big deal. His parents seemed to have known, but never really asked him about it. "I got caught. And my father had me whipped. My back was bleeding for the next few days after that..."  
  
Jack's jaw, was slack. Sure, stealing cake was a mischievous act, but it was nowhere near as bad as what he'd done with the keg of ale. The punishment was way out of line. It took Elian a few moments to realize that Jack had fallen silent and was simply staring at him with a look of utter surprise and shock. Elian blushed and cast his gaze to the ground. "I-I'm sorry I said anything..."  
  
"No, no... I'm sorry I asked..." said Jack, slowly, placing a comforting hand on Elian's shoulder. "I didn't realize..." He said, gently rubbing Elian's back."Good gods--" Elian scoffed at the expression. "--I know you said he was a ruthless man, but I didn't think... What kind of a father could do that to his child?" Jack shuddered at the very thought. Sure, Nyko beat him, and his ass was very often bruised and asking desperately for relief whenever his father did that, but he'd never been beaten to the point of bloodletting.  
  
"Akthar was a king before he was a father, and even then, he was a cruel man before he took the crown..." Elian whispered, almost seeming to push into Jack's touch. This one, he knew, was a touch of comfort, of concern, not like the rough, callous, lecherous hands that roamed his flesh every time he was raped before. "I think he just hated me, because I challenged his reign..."  
  
Jack shook his head. No parent had the right to be that cruel to their child... Physical discipline was understandable, but what Akthar had done to Elian was more than that, it was a show of power, authority, and it was unnecessary. Perhaps Jack wasn't abandoned, perhaps he was stolen away from brutal birth parents and left to his fathers so that he could live a better life... Much good that did him, but at least he was not whipped to the point of bleeding like Elian.  
  
Moments passed in silence, only the sounds of the forest and the water in the pond giving them company in their solitude. Both young men mulled over what had just been said, Elian over the truth of his father's ruthlessness, and Jack over the horrors of Elian's childhood. Both slowly came to the realization that neither wanted to continue the conversation in the same vein, but it was the farmboy that decided to break the silence first.  
  
"So..." Jack said, tentatively. This was a topic he was not entirely too comfortable breaching with Elian. After all, it had become clear over the past few weeks that Elian was not entirely comfortable with having to leave either. He had set his mind on leaving out of what he perceived to be the act's necessity, and not because it was what he wanted. No. What he wanted, something that both his heart and mind had seemed to agree upon, was staying at the farm with Jack. Nevertheless, there was a part of him that just wanted to protect Jack from the peril that seemed to follow him whereever he went.   
  
"The cow's giving birth soon..." The expression on Elian's face dropped all too suddenly. It was almost as though he had forgotten about the agreement. He did not want to leave, but now that the agreed upon time was coming upon them, he could not deny that he had made a pact with himself that he would leave then. "...and, as much as I don't want you to go..." Elian averted his gaze, colour coming to his cheeks.   
  
"I didn't want you to go without preparation. Come with me. Let's take a walk." Jack said, straightening from where he sat beside Elian, and stretching his limbs. He pulled Elian to his feet and smiled. "I'll teach you about the plants you can probably find wherever you're going... Just in case you end up injuring yourself again, maybe you can learn to make the paste I used on you..." he continued.  
  
A look of gratitude and happiness replaced the sadness that had shadowed Elian's face. At least Jack didn't seem to be taking his departure too badly. Elian had been too busy avoiding Jack's gaze to notice the brief, but truly profound sorrow and longing in those ice-blue eyes. "I... I... Thank you, Jack..." said Elian with a smile. The farmboy smiled back and grabbed Elian's wrist before pulling him through the woods.  
  
\---  
  
It was later in the night, after a bitter stew of horsemeat and radishes, the latter of which were so pitifully shriveled that they barely were recognizable for Gwen, that Bran returned to the camp. He was flustered, more than anything, and he had come back with no more men than he had left with. They had had no luck trying to find the men that had vanished in the night. "I just don't understand, Gwen. Those five were the last people I'd have expected to desert."  
  
"They were reversals, Bran. Morally reprehensible. They probably were just pretending" spat Gwen. The prejudice was still deeply ingrained in her. After all, her uncle had been a sun priest. The man frowned at her. He'd never heard such vicious vitriol from the woman. Despite the infatuation he held deeply for her, there were lines he was not willing to let her cross. She'd just crossed one.  
  
"You know as well as I that you're being bigoted, Gwen" snapped Bran at his partner-in-command. Despicable, really, how after years of traveling in their companionship, the woman could dare say such things about those men. They were among the best in their small contingent, and Bran was beginning to suspect foul play. "Five men do not simply vanish into the night without trace, and you know it. I think they were taken."  
  
"By whom? Who the fuck would care enough to take five men from this ragtag group of soldiers?" said Gwen, not taking her eyes from the scraps of stew and meat that remained in her bowl. She took her spoon and scraped the dredges into her mouth. None of it was particularly pleasant, but she was hungry, and a hungry stomach did not discriminate between foods. "You have no proof. I will not waste any more of our time trying to get to the bottom of this. We have to find Elian."  
  
"You are  _so_  convinced that he will love you, that you've managed to fool yourself into believing that it is your place to call our prince by his name" scoffed Bran. He entirely understood why Gwen did not want to spend any more time than had already been to look for the five men. They had spent years looking, and were perhaps on the cusp of completing their quest. There was no sense in trying to do other things than what was their directive. "His highness must decide for his own. You had better be mindfu--"  
  
The tent flap was flung open, allowing a gust of cold wind accompanied by large snowflakes into the tent. It ruffled the map on the table, almost threatening to blow it away. Thankfully that did not happen. One of their soldiers strode into the tent, panting. "Sir, Dame, the watch found someone." For a moment, Bran was ecstatic. Had they managed to find one of the men that had vanished in the night? "It's a little girl."  
  
It was Gwen's turn to be happy, surprised, even. She had a soft spot for children. "Bring her in" said the woman, motioning for the soldier to do just that. The soldier nodded and saluted her before jogging out of the tent. Moments after he'd left, a squire entered the tent with a bowl of stew for Bran.  
  
The stew was fairly cold. That was often the case with their food. On the first night of their excursion, they had learned that there were things that the battle-worn soldiers could not do as they were used to. One of those was having the cooking pits in the heart of the camp. No fire seemed to be able to withstand the bitter cold, and the sheer amount of individuals that were there to drain them of their heat. Now the pits were a ways away from the camp proper, and any food cooked only ever came back cold.  
  
It had been a good long while since Bran, or anyone in their small group for that matter, had had a good hot meal. None of them had had a good hot _anything_  since leaving Vamara. Despite the almost-clammy stew, Bran savoured it. Food was difficult to come by, and they were hungry.  
  
Minutes later, the soldier was back, little girl in tow. Her hair was pale white, much like the hair of the Vampiri in the camp. She was shivering. She seemed small, and hungry. Her eyes, however, burned with determination and loathing. Gwen walked over to the little girl, hand on her weapon, towering over the child with imposing stature. For all she was smaller than Gwen, the little girl did not seem at all intimidated. She craned her neck up at Gwen, glaring at the commanding officer. Gwen met the little girl's challenge with a level gaze of her own.  
  
For a good few minutes, both commander and little girl faced off against each other, silent, neither wanting to give in to the other. Both were motionless, neither so much as twitching. The soldier standing at attention nearby, waiting for dismissal shuffled uncomfortably in his spot. Bran watched the showdown with a raised eyebrow. A hundred men, all of them unable to look Gwen in the eye when she was putting on her ferocious mask, and all it took to match the captain was one little girl who came in from a winter storm.  
  
Gwen laughed. A high-pitched, musical laugh that neither Bran nor any of the men in their little company had heard since they started out on this damnable journey of theirs. She lowered herself to the little girl's level, a small smile playing on her lips. The poor soldier standing by the tent flap looked so baffled by the whole display that he edged closer to the exit. He was about to leave when Gwen snapped at him. "Did I say you could leave, soldier? On the ground. Give me fifty. Then, you can leave."  
  
The soldier froze at the harsh clip in Gwen's voice, much in contrast to the high-pitched laughter mere moments prior. With a sigh, he lowered himself to the ground. The fifty push-ups would be painful, especially since he had just come in from finishing his watch. He was tired. The little girl glared at the soldier, too, drawing another laugh from Gwen.  
  
"Alright, little one. What's your name?" asked the commander, stripping off her gauntlet and extending a hand for the child.  
  
"Liana" said the little girl, a stern clip not unlike Gwen's in her voice. The smile on the commander's face broadened. She had a soft spot for children, especially those who most resembled her back in her childhood. "You're not him. Where is he?" said the girl, grabbing Gwen's face with her little hands as though to drive home the point.  
  
"Where is who?" asked Gwen, gently removing Liana's hands from the sides of her face. She clasped the girl's soft palms in her own, and peered into her eyes. There was hurt, and anger, and fear in those eyes. The very same emotions reminded Gwen of herself in her younger years. This little girl would definitely find a place in the commander's heart, if Liana allowed herself to.  
  
"The Cold One" said Liana, mustering a gravity in her childish voice that had no right to be there. Her eyes narrowed in anger, and she tugged her hands away from Gwen's. Tears welled up in the little girl's eyes, and she looked down at her feet. "He had ice... l-like you..." said Liana in a halting voice. She was trembling, trying her best to keep the sobs from coming.  
  
"He cursed me with ice. Now it's so... cold..." A sob escaped Liana's throat for a moment. She clapped a hand over her mouth. She balled her hands into small fists at the sides of her hand. She almost growled. "He killed my mother..." said the little girl, glancing over her shoulder for a brief moment. "He took my father and his best friend Rein." She stomped a foot on the floor. "He ruined my life! I will kill him!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! It's that time of the week again.
> 
> More build-up in this chapter, but shit hits the fan almost instantly right after. Jussayin'. Also, I'd like to know what you think! I'd like to know if I managed to get just how much squalor the soldiers of Bran and Gwen's troupe are living in. I'd also like to know if I managed to convey the desperation in their situation properly.
> 
> Also, here's a hint about the future: the story of Jack and Elian ends quiiiite a number of years after the current day. In fact, I already have the ending scene written up. ;)
> 
> In any case, back to the present. What do you think of Gwen and Bran so far? About the instability and near-obsession(not really near, it's ACTUALLY obsession) that the commander has developed? Comment! I'd like to know. :3.
> 
> And, as always, here's a preview of next week's chapter:
> 
> _"For fuck's sake, Gwen, she's a little girl!" protested Bran. His disdain was far from unfounded, as Gwen had gone in an instant from caring commander to paranoid fretter. Liana had been taken away by the squire as soon as the words left her mouth, and for good reason. Gwen had tensed up like a mountain lion before pouncing to take a kill._


	15. Starlight

"For fuck's sake, Gwen, she's a little girl!" protested Bran. His disdain was far from unfounded, as Gwen had gone in an instant from caring commander to paranoid fretter. Liana had been taken away by the squire as soon as the words left her mouth, and for good reason. Gwen had tensed up like a mountain lion before pouncing to take a kill. There was an anger in her posture that Bran only knew because he'd been with her and the core of their little company for so many years. Not that many of them were still left, Bran mused.  
  
"She's going to kill him!" Gwen yelled at Bran, bringing her fist down on the table and the maps of the surrounding area. The maps had been quite difficult to obtain. They had been considerably pricey, too. Bran frowned. Gwen had added another tear to one of the corners. Great. Just what they needed. More damage to their vital irreplaceable supplies. The fact of the matter was, though, that in the remote lands they were in, the maps were almost useless, providing only rough estimates of where small towns were located.  
  
"Gwen! Listen to yourself!" said Bran, walking over to her and shaking her by the shoulders. "You are being unreasonable!" he said, tilting her head up and looking straight into her frantic eyes as they darted about the room. He'd known that the entire campaign had changed a number of the troop's members, but he'd not entirely understood how profoundly it had changed Gwen until a few weeks past. Now she was obsessed with the object of their quest.  
  
"Unreasonable? UNREASONABLE?!" she yelled. Her fortunately un-gauntleted fist connected with Bran's jaw with enough force to send him sprawling onto his back. "Don't fucking touch me." She snarled at him as he rubbed his jaw. "She threatened to kill my prince. My dear sweet prince..." for a moment, the anger subsided, only to be replaced with a throughly discomfiting reverence. "Is it so fucking unreasonable to want to kill her before she can get the chance?"  
  
"By the gods, Gwen... What happened to you?" pressed Bran, ignoring her points. His partner in command merely glared at him. "Fine. Fine. Yes! It is! What in hell are you so afraid of from this little girl?!" demanded the man. "She's in a camp surrounded by little less than a hundred soldiers. We're battle-honed warriors. We've seen bloodshed and carrion and more things than we'd care to imagine! Do you really think she could try and kill the prince we've been trying to find and get back to Vamara for the past few years?"  
  
Gwen fixed Bran with a smoldering glare for a few more moments before sighing. "Fine. Fine." Her heart was still thumping in her chest, having been kicked into a gallop by the words that Liana spoke. She had no doubt in her mind that it was Elian that the little girl was talking about. There was no doubt whatsoever. After all, who else would be this far south, wielding the powers of the Coldsnap? "Mark my words, Bran, if anything happens to him when we find him, she dies."  
  
With a huff, Gwen rose from the table, put on her gauntlet, and walked out into the bitter winter storm as it raged through the night. Bran was not sure what he should make of the situation. In one day, Gwen had managed to cross two lines, two lines that he was sure she could never cross back over. He prayed to the gods, both old and new, that their journey would soon come to its end. This hare-brained quest of theirs was beginning to take its toll on the sanity of all those involved.  
  
Bran sat in the near-darkness of the tent for a few minutes, unsure what to do. He sighed. He really wished he was in front of a warm hearth, if only so that he could feel  _human_ , again. He knew that it was that reason, and that reason alone that continued to keep their company together. Theirs was a mutual desire, a mutual need, to feel  _normal_  again. Sure, the ice was useful in many regards, but it was a miserable existence.  
  
The perpetual cold and clamminess, and the perpetual winter storm that followed them wherever they ventured were high prices to pay for the power they held at their fingertips. Most of his men, himself included, would rather return to their tempered steel and shields and plate than wield this ice, if only it meant that they could feel warm and alive once again. They were soldiers, not warlocks, warriors, not magicians. Above all, they were men, not creatures of winter.  
  
Nevertheless, were it not for all the hardships that they had to endure in bearing their wintry curse, there was a certain beauty about the ice that none of them could deny. One of the things that Bran had learned in order to occupy himself on long sleepless nights was to make his ice glow. He'd shown it to the reversals, when they had still been with the company, and had tried to teach it to them, but they never seemed to be able to achieve the same meditative trance that allowed him to do what he did.  
  
His experimentation was the one thing that kept him sane through the years of their near-futile search. He conjured up a snowflake above his open palm. It glittered in the dim light that seemed to permeate their camp regardless of whether or not the moon was obscured by the clouds that so often gathered around them. Bran furrowed his eyebrows, concentrating on the ice that hovered in the air before him.  
  
Before long, the snowflake began to shed its soft bluish light inside the tent. Bran watched it, entranced, as the rays of light that radiated out from the snowflake danced on the rough canvas of the tent. He sighed. If only the ice came solely with its beauty and none of its danger. If only the ice was a rose without its thorns, he would have loved to have it. The reality was, however, that the ice brought with it a hefty price.  
  
The light of the snowflake faltered, but Bran managed to regain his calm before long, and the light shone as strongly as it had before those thoughts entered his mind. He heard a rustle behind him. It was probably one of the squires, going into the tent to clean up after the two commanders, but he heard no salute, nothing. Slowly, Bran turned around, the snowflake following his hand as he did.  
  
Behind him, just barely inside the tent, was the little girl from earlier. "What... are you doing here?" he asked, slowly, the light from the snowflake sputtering and almost dying as he did. He knelt in front of the little girl. "Was your tent guarded?" Liana nodded. "How did you get out?" The little girl shrugged. She pointed at the glowing snowflake in Bran's hand and smiled.  
  
This Liana was so much different from the little girl he'd seen mere moments ago, almost like the paragon of innocence that she was truly supposed to be. He brought the snowflake closer to the little girl, illuminating her face, and her weary eyes that had no right to be on a child. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen much pain in the world, and for one so young to bear them, Bran could only imagine what terrors she'd lived through.  
  
Nevertheless, the smile that touched her face when the snowflake was brought nearer lit up her eyes as well. For a moment, she stood there, a child innocent and pure as she had been before Elian had trampled all over her life. She cupped her hands around the snowflake before Bran could complain, but as she took them away, his eyes grew wide in surprise as the light was nearly twice as radiant as before.  
  
The little girl giggled, and, in a surprising twist of fate, threw her arms around Bran. When she pulled away, she sat on the cold floor of the tent, tilting her head to the side and up at Bran. Not knowing what else to do, Bran followed her example and sat in front of her, legs folded before him.  
  
"Why are you here?" The little girl shrugged and looked at her feet instead. "Oh. Couldn't sleep?" Liana raised her eyes to Brans, their gazes meeting in the light of the snowflake for a short moment. A small, shy smile danced on her lips, drawing a similar one from Bran. "I haven't been able to sleep in a long time either..."  
  
There was an inexplicable, unfathomable gratitude that shone in Liana's eyes at that moment. Perhaps it was in finding someone else that shared plights similar to her own that offered her some solace. At the end of the day, after all, she was still a little girl. Granted, an angry, bitter, little girl, but a little girl all the same.  
  
She was lost, she was tired, she was hungry, and she had just about lost everyone important in her life. Liana crawled over to Bran's side and sat there instead. The commander leaned over and looked at her. "Want to talk about it?" Liana shook her head. "Alright. Well, would it help if I talked about it?" The little girl nodded, the small smile on her face never leaving for a single moment.  
  
"I'm afraid" said Bran, his words barely even a whisper in the tent. Liana leaned her head against Bran's arm. She was, as well. "I'm afraid I won't ever be able to go home again. Feel human, again. I'm afraid the woman I love won't ever see the world the same way again." Bran trembled, and the light hovering above his hand faltered and died. The snowflake fractured and showered tiny cold crystals on his outstretched palm.  
  
"I've seen many things, over these years..." he whispered as he felt the little girl's breathing beside him slow down. "Many of them horrible..." Bran shook his head. "I always have nightmares about the friends I've lost on this gods-damned quest..." Bran twiddled his thumbs. "I see their faces, and they never, ever, let me have the peace of slumber."  
  
"They always look at me with this pleading look, as though begging me to help them..." Liana was breathing evenly and slowly, at this point. The little girl had fallen asleep, tired, and hungry, after wandering from the nearby town. "I want to. But I can't. I can't. I may be their commander, but I'm just a man with a frozen sword. Fuck if I know how to help them..."  
  
"All this is just beyond me" lamented Bran, taking his hand and stroking the nape of Liana's neck as though to comfort the dozing little girl. Despite the sadness and helplessness wrapped around him, Bran could not stop the smile that touched his lips as the little girl threw her arms around him.  
  
Without opening her eyes, she uttered the first word she had since sneaking into the captains' tent.  _"Tristan..."_  
  
\---  
  
The day had been fairly eventful, with Elian having one of his panic attacks in the middle of their walk through the forest. Jack had made sure to keep his distance as the blond struggled to get his emotions under control once more. By the time all was said and done, a good swathe of the forest floor and the foliage above was frozen solid. Elian had trembled from the force of the sheer terror that had engulfed him in those few moments that seemed to stretch into eternity.  
  
While normally he would have abhorred the touch, Jack's arms around him as he sank to his knees were a welcome embrace. Warmth flowed from the farmboy to the deposed prince, and the trembling ever so slowly began to subside into barely noticeable shivers. Jack had then helped Elian to his feet, and they continued their walk through the dense woods with the blond in the platinum's arms.  
  
Now, after a light dinner, the two young men lay side by side on the blanket that Jack had brought, looking up at the night sky with nothing but the flickering of the small campfire beside them to shed brightness in the clearing. Jack looked at Elian, only to find that the blond was looking with an almost wistful expression back at him. The farmboy smiled and grasped Elian's wrist with a tender affection that was not lost on the blond. Elian smiled back, the serenity of the clearing and gurgling stream that stemmed from it keeping his fear at bay.  
  
In unison, the two young men turned their eyes skyward, casting the light of their gazes to the heavens above them. The night sky was a canvas of deepest inky blue speckled with glittering gems of starlight. To the two young men lying beneath their twinkling light, the stars seemed like unmoving fixtures amongst the ever-shifting clouds, rising and falling like the sun and moon, immutable reminders of the passage of time.  
  
The moon had not yet risen above the trees. For that reason, its bright light did not wash out the myriad stars in the sky. Jack cast his eyes to the west, towards where, just above the tops of the trees, a vast milky band of light spanned from horizon to horizon. It was that band that his fathers had called the Way to Awe, the path which all the ships that traveled from the mortal world to the Westerlands traversed. It was a calm river of light, beautiful to behold even from where all mortal men were bound for as long as they lived.  
  
A soft sigh escaped Jack's lips as he watched the Way shed its pale light into the sky. He wondered if Kyle was still there. Neither Kyle nor Nyko seemed to know how long the journey West took, nor did they seem to care. All that mattered to them was that the journey West was a journey to paradise, to a world free of fear, pain, sorrow... A single tear rolled down Jack's cheek.   
  
The farmboy remembered how often Kyle would talk of seeing the Westerlands before his death. He told of the rolling fields of his childhood, the bright sunlight, the cool autumn breeze that just seemed to caress a man at all the right times... Kyle told of a place that did not care whom you loved, that did not care what sins you had committed... It was a place to be happy, to spend the rest of eternity in joyous limbo.  
  
There were times in those days that Jack found himself yearning for the chance to go on that same journey, but time and again, he became deathly afraid. It was the great unknown, for him, that journey West. He did not know if it was as unequivocally true as his fathers believed it to be. What if, when he died, there would be no one to come and fetch his soul from the land of the living as Nyko had Kyle?  
  
Jack turned to Elian, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. The blond was staring at the stars, their twinkling light lending a spark of beauty to icy blue eyes as they gazed with almost-reverence upon the heavens. Jack closed his eyes, burning that image into his mind's eye. He no longer had much reason to seek the Way. This, right here, to him, was paradise.  
  
Simply being with Elian for even a brief moment in eternity, with no worry, fear, or regret... All of it was heavenly, in Jack's mind. He gently rubbed his thumb in slow circles on the back of the blond's hand. It was a tender moment, and one that he would treasure until the day he breathed his last breath. He was thankful that nothing had yet disturbed their peace.  
  
"Jack." The farmboy's eyes fluttered open. Elian's voice was as soft as the breeze that then blew past them. "Do you ever wonder..." Elian clasped his hand around Jack's fingers. "Do you ever wonder what stars are...?" The blond's voice never rose to more than what it truly was: a whisper. "Why they're up there... Why they twinkle...? Are they telling us something?"  
  
Jack looked at Elian. The blond's eyes were firmly fixated on the heavens. A small smile twisted the corners of Jack's lips as he felt Elian's fingers close around his own. It had been a long time since they had been this close. His heart set slightly aflutter, Jack raised his eyes to the heavens, searching for the same questions that Elian had just asked him. "I... I've never wondered that..." For a moment, silence fell. "My fathers told me that each and every one of those stars is the soul of one of our ancestors, living in the Westerlands and watching over us..."  
  
"That's what I used to believe too..." Jack turned his eyes again to Elian. The blond was still looking straight up at the glittering gems of starlight in the night sky. "I... I don't want that to be true..." Jack watched as tears welled up in Elian's eyes, firelight, along with starlight, dancing on their watery sheen. "Whenever I think of the stars as my forefathers, I can never bear to look up at them and see their beauty." Elian shook his head, but never once took his eyes off of the point in the sky they were fixed upon. "I only see their eyes looking down on me, disappointed, disgusted..."  
  
Tears ran down the sides of Elian's face. Jack leaned over and wiped them away with his free thumb while at the same time squeezing the blond's hand in support. "What's there to be disappointed by, disgusted by, Elian?" Jack released Elian's hand and propped himself up by his elbow. "You've survived all these years on your own... You've managed to make it this far knowing nothing when you started... How is that anything to be ashamed of?" When Elian remained silent, Jack added "If anything, that's something your ancestors should be proud of."  
  
"If my ancestors are anything like my father, anything like Vamara's history books make them out to be..." Elian trailed off, clasping his hands together and laying them on his stomach. "If they are what the people tell them to be... They would not be proud." For the first time, Elian tore away his gaze from the twinkling pinpricks of light in the heavens above them and turned to look Jack in the eye. "It's just... you don't understand, Jack."  
  
The words felt like a stab in the chest, and the happiness in Jack's face slipped off in an instant. "No" he admitted, breaking eye-contact with Elian and rolling over to lie on his back. "No, I don't understand..." In a softer voice, one laced with hurt and determination, Jack continued "Maybe I never will... but that doesn't mean I will stop trying."  
  
\---  
  
Kristoff motioned for one of the tavern maids to bring him a tankard of ale. It had taken much less time than he'd expected to find his way back to the town where he'd met the men who had been following Elian. He'd not planned to go back until he'd visited the three other small villages in the area, but something that had yet to leave his mind had occurred not too long ago. As a result, he was back in the village. He'd had to leave Sven outside the town, or he would have risked attracting attention and recognition to himself. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized by the portly tavernmaster as the bard that had left a whole load of gold to pay for a hasty departure.   
  
When the tankard was brought to him, Kristoff took a deep swig. The ale was hearty and had a good body to it. It was definitely a quality drink, one that he presumed was bought with the coin he'd left. Nevertheless, he was not there out of luxury. He was back in the village out of necessity. It had been almost a week since that most disturbing event that threatened to throw all the carefully constructed plans of the Tower to pieces. He was sure there were others of the old Order that were in the village right at that moment. He couldn't possibly have been the only one near enough to bear witness to what had happened.  
  
Just as he finished taking a second swig from the tankard of ale, the door to the tavern swung open and a man who looked vaguely familiar strode into the tavern. He was decked in the regalia of the sun priests, and he seemed to be looking for someone. Iven was summarily dismissed as soon as he even tried to take one step towards the priest.  
  
Kristoff's heart very nearly stopped when he recognized the man. An old lover, and an old member of the Order. Kristoff hid his face in his tankard, hoping against hope that the sun priest would not recognize him. It was an attempt at hiding that was to no avail. The priest was heading directly for Kristoff's table, ignoring all the fawning townspeople around him.  
  
"Old friend..." said the priest with an almost-genuine smile as he sat down across from Kristoff. Truth be told, unlike most members of their respective Orders, Kristoff did not feel as much animosity towards the sun priest before him nor the other towards him. "It's been a long time, eh?" There were decades of bitterness between the two, but it was more because of the relationship they once had that had been so unceremoniously torn apart by their difference in opinion.  
  
"It has been" replied Kristoff, keeping a wary eye on the man before him. "How long has it been, Daemon?" The priest opened his mouth to speak, but Kristoff cut him off before he could. "Nevermind. Don't answer that. I know exactly how long it has been. Thirty-seven years and two months. Last I saw you properly, you were just about to be Caged." Kristoff shot a pointed and accusatory glare at the man before him. They had been so happy, but Daemon just had to go and fuck everything up.  
  
"And I still am" said the priest, throwing open his small tunic as though to entice Kristoff. Truth be told, the blond was feeling some old stirrings in him that he'd thought were long gone. That being said, it was just probably the weeks of having no sexual satisfaction whatsoever that was getting to him. "Don't think I don't know you weren't involved in that raid on the monastery in the Northern Mountains, Kristoff" said the priest, shooting a similar glare Kristoff's way.  
  
The blond laughed bitterly. He should have known Daemon was involved. Who else could have anticipated his strategies so well? The campaign against that monastery had been far too difficult for it to have been anyone but Daemon. Nevertheless, he knew that the priest had also been involved in other skirmishes between their orders. "And I know you were there at the Battle of Farrycc Bay twelve years ago. After all, who else would use Vyrrcðocchyn in a naval battle?"  
  
The priest laughed as well. "You must admit, that was quite the tactical...  _flair_." Kristoff shook his head, unable to help the small genuine smile of mirth that graced his lips at that moment. Perhaps they were on different sides of an ages-old conflict these days, but Daemon had not changed much from the sprightly young man that Kristoff had fallen in love with all those years ago. That love had been dulled by the passage of time, and both knew that it barely even qualified as that these days, but seeing the other, despite the animosity their Orders demanded, offered some sense of normalcy, a modicum of comfort.  
  
"Nevertheless, I know why you're here" said the priest, shattering the humored atmosphere between the two of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Kristoff watched the air around the two shimmer with magic. "Warding against eavesdroppers" said the priest, tucking away the carved pendant he'd taken out of his coatpocket. "I'm sure you're dying to know just what that surge of Primal magic was about."  
  
\---  
  
Bran was jolted awake by the nervous nickering of a nearby horse. He'd not realized he had fallen asleep. Liana was still leaning against him, her arms wrapped as much as they could be around his midriff. From his vantage point, the vengeful little girl of a mere few hours ago was but a tired child whose life had been uprooted by no fault of her own. Gently, he unwound her arms from around himself and picked her up in his own.  
  
Bran knew which tent the soldiers had given the little girl. After all, it was the very same tent that the two lovers had shared before they mysteriously disappeared the previous night. Motioning at the clearly panicked guard to keep quiet as he approached, Bran entered the tent and set Liana down on the meagre blankets that protected the tent floor from the frozen ground. Satisfied that the little girl would be comfortable, Bran ducked through the tent flap and confronted the soldier who had been posted outside.  
  
"Sir..." the soldier trembled in apprehension at Bran's reappearance from within. He had, after all, just allowed a potential killer loose into the camp.  
  
"Shh" said Bran with a genuine smile. The men were tired, and the last thing he needed to do was to be as stringent as Gwen was. "It's alright. What I'm interested in knowing is how she managed to get past a trained soldier." Bran's voice was barely a whisper in the night, but it was loud enough for the soldier to hear.  
  
"I fell asleep at my post, sir." Bran cocked an eyebrow at the young man in front of him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've been on the last three shifts of the watch." Bran's raised eyebrow went even higher. "The other soldiers refused to wake up, so I had to stay up in their stead." The commander's eyebrows knotted together. It was one of the first signs of distress for any commander of a company. Dissent was beginning to be sown amongst the ranks.  
  
"Go get some sleep, soldier. I'll see what I can do about your predicament." Bran balled his hands into fists. Three soldiers were about to get the talking-to of their lives. He had the authority to execute the men for dissent, but Bran knew doing so would only gain him and Gwen the ire of others in the company.   
  
Trembling, the soldier shook his head. "If you don't mind, sir... I'd like to stay." Bran was more than a little surprised at the soldier's words. "I--I don't want to sleep in my tent." There was genuine fear in the soldier's eyes. Despite the fact that his eyelids were sliding shut even as they spoke, despite the fact that he teetered on his feet, threatening to spill forward and fall flat on his face, there was a terror in his eyes that stirred greater anger inside Bran.  
  
"Why?" asked the commander, voice firm and stern. He grabbed the soldier's shoulders to steady him, but the other man's head just rolled forward limply. The man had fallen asleep. "Why? Answer me." demanded Bran a second time, shaking the soldier awake from his temporary slumber.  
  
"Please, sir, don't--" The soldier was trembling, unable to look Bran in the eye. His cheeks were flushed red, and, if Bran was not mistaken, there were tears falling from his eyes.  
  
"That is an order, soldier! Why do you not want to sleep in your tent?" The soldier looked up at Bran with such a pleading look that for a moment, the commander considered letting the matter go. He did not. He wanted to get to the bottom of why one of his men was showing such fear of going to sleep in his own tent.  
  
"M-m-my tent-mate, s-sir." The soldier's lower lip trembled and his gaze darted furtively about, as though ensuring that there was no one else nearby that could hear him. "H-he..." The soldier drew a deep shuddering breath. "He's made me his bitch, sir." The words made Bran's blood ran cold. Under normal circumstances, he would have told the soldier to man the fuck up and face his tormentor, but the blubbering mess of a creature in front of him told him that that course of action was beyond the bounds of reason for this particular soldier.  
  
"What did he do to you, soldier?" Bran demanded, allowing a modicum of tenderness and concern into his otherwise stern voice. "And stop your crying. It's unsightly." The soldier sniffled and tried to steady himself on his feet, but couldn't. The shame of admitting to being roughly used by his tent-mate was crippling, if anything. The soldier wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hands.  
  
"A-at first he let me f-fuck him... a-and in e-exchange I let him f-fuck me... Sir" mumbled the soldier, pale skin alight with burning shame. "b-but t-then as time w-went on h-he started c-calling me n-names and w-wouldn't l-let me fuck him..." The soldier stared at his feet. "H-he wouldn't even l-let me j-jerk off. H-he told me h-he would k-kill me if I t-told anyone..."  
  
"Tall words" remarked the officer, keeping his firm grasp on the soldier's arms constant. "A threat on one of your comrades lives isn't a joking matter, soldier. You should have told us." The soldier laughed bitterly, as though the apparent solution that Bran had offered was the most alien thought to him. He laughed as though the very idea was ludicrous and could not, in any way, be true.  
  
"Y-you don't understand, sir... M-my tent-mate is Gython..." The largest man in their company, and arguably the strongest. Looking at the countenance of the soldier before him, Bran realized the truth of the soldier's words. Gython would have snapped him like a twig. "I-I t-thought if I told you, you would just laugh a-at m-me and t-tell me to be a man..." The soldier shook in Bran's firm grip. "I c-can't be... Not a-after what h-he's done to me... I-I d-don't want to go back to m-my tent because h-he never l-lets me go to sleep w-without fucking me..."  
  
Bran loosened his grip on the soldier's shoulders and made as though to take a step back. The soldier's head whipped up and his terror-stricken eyes met Bran's. The soldier fell to his knees and begged the commander. "P-please... D-don't tell anyone... D-don't tell him..." The commander reached down and pulled the soldier back up to his feet. "I'm a-afraid of him, sir... I'm a-afraid of what my wife will t-think..."  
  
Bran patted the soldier's shoulder reassuringly even as seething rage beat at the walls of his consciousness. "I won't. I swear it by the gods." The soldier looked up at Bran with such a look of gratitude and relief that the commander almost regretted saying the words. How such a thing had been going on in his company without his knowledge was a terrifying lapse in his judgment of his men. He realized that while he had been struggling with his own nightmares and how Gwen had changed over the years that his men had changed too, and he had been far too occupied with his own problems to take notice of his men's.  
  
"Where are the others on your watch?" The soldier's eyes went wide with terror at Bran's demand. "I will not tell them anything but you must be a man for a little while. You need sleep." A wary gratefulness washed over the fear in the soldier's eyes, burying it, yes, but not completely. The soldier jerked his head to a nearby tent. "Stay here and gather your wits about yourself. You'll need them."  
  
\---  
  
Elian smiled at Jack's words. He did not know why, but they brought him a profound sense of comfort he did not think mere words could. Perhaps it was the idea that someone would actually devote their time and effort to try and comprehend his pain that offered him some security. Perhaps he was not entirely worthless, after all. The silence stretched between the two, the only noise that broke it was Glaise's panting as he watched the two young men from beside the fire.  
  
When he felt the silence had gone on for long enough, Elian raised a finger to the night sky and pointed at the brightest star that they could see from the clearing. "When I was young and still in Vamara, my tutors told me that that star was the very first ruler of Old Vamara. They told me that anyone destined for greatness would find their way by following his light." Elian sighed softly. "When I was young, I would always try and find some meaning in his light, but when I realized there was nothing in it, I started to think that I was not meant for great things..."  
  
Jack shook his head in clear disagreement. Elian chuckled. Jack always seemed to think the best of him, even if Elian knew deep within that the farmboy was mistaken. The blond simply could not find it in himself to correct Jack anymore... Not that the farmboy would be so easily swayed in any case even if he did. If there was one thing he'd learned about Jack, it was that the farmboy could be insufferably stubborn at times.   
  
"It's alright" said Elian, a marked levity in his voice that had not been there before. It was a strange but pleasant turn of tone from mere minutes ago. "There are days when I can convince myself that I don't believe those things anymore." Elian moved his finger to point to one of the dimmer stars towards the southern end of the clearing. The small pinprick of light was quite unremarkable in the night sky save for its distinctly reddish glint. "That one, they said, is the Pearly King, as they called him. He was the most despised King of Vamara. Under his reign, the kingdom flourished, but there were no wars."  
  
"Vamara was a place of happiness, not swords, and none of the writers of history liked him. Not the elders, not the generals, not the councilmen. They said that the worst people will find their way in his light." Elian laughed bitterly. "Him... Him I followed South. If I could, I would go back and laugh in the elders' faces. I would tell them that it's not the worst people that the Pearly King can lead you to. I would tell them that He could lead you to perhaps the  _best_  person." A blush crept into Elian's cheeks, but Jack could do nothing but stare at him in puzzlement for a moment as he tried to process what the blond had just said.  
  
When the farmboy came to realize the off-handed compliment that Elian had just made, the blood rushed to his face so fast that he had no time to think of a response. Instead he sputtered, trying to make sense of an incoherent jumble of words that had suddenly overtaken his mind. All were words that he'd at some point wanted to tell Elian to profess some sort of affection, but decided not to. Now, they had somehow found their way back in the most unorganized way possible.  
  
Elian smiled and folded his arms behind his head. "I like to believe that the stars are other worlds..." said the blond, almost wistfully as he pointed at another star. This one was twinkling so quickly it seemed as though it had lost its mind. "Other worlds where there isn't hate, or fear, or hunger, or madness..." Elian leaned over to look at Jack, who was still struggling to find words at this point in time, and asked "Don't you think it would be nice if all those stars out there were other worlds with people just like you and me?"  
  
"I guess it would be..." whispered Jack, feeling relieved at having the burden of replying to Elian's previous statement lifted from his shoulders. "But why would it matter if there are other worlds out there?" asked Jack. "It's not like we will ever be able to reach the stars... Not while we live, at least" he continued.  
  
Elian shook his head, casting his eyes about the heavens. There. One star glimmered blue. There. Barely distinguishable from each other, two dim stars twinkled beside each other, as though twins. "Maybe if we can fly high enough we could, Jack..." Elian's voice took on an earnestness that came from somewhere Jack could not fathom. "Just imagine... if there are worlds out there where we can live without misery..." Jack closed his eyes and did as Elian said. He envisioned a world without all the pain and fear that this one caused him.  
  
It was heaven. If Elian was there with him, Jack mused, the Westerlands, no matter how paradisiacal they might be, would be like a candle flame to the radiance of the sun. "That... that  _would_  be quite nice, Elian..." said Jack, a smile playing upon his face as he saw Elian approach him with arms outstretched in his mind's eye.  
  
"If there are other worlds out there, Jack... with people like us..." The tone of Elian's voice suggested that he was not talking about the race of man, but rather, people like himself and Jack who happened to love others of the same sex. "What would they tell us if they could speak to us...?" Jack cracked open an eye and looked over at Elian.   
  
"I don't know, Elian..." Jack crawled over to where Elian was lying flat on his back. "Maybe if you're right, we'll get to know one day." Elian smiled. Now that was a comforting thought, being right about something for once in his life. The clearing, as bitter as the memories that had brought him to it had been, granted Elian a serenity that he had long since thought the gods had forever forbidden him from attaining.  
  
It was that calm that chased away his fears, the terrors that would often surge through his veins. The moon was just about cresting the tops of the trees, and its milky light finally began to filter into the clearing. Both young men watched with mouths slightly agape as the moonlight caught upon the closed buds of the many Blue Maids that ringed the pond. The flowers began to glow a soft, faint blue as they began to open, glittering puffs of loose pollen drifting skywards in the silvery bars of light.  
  
At the same instant, the clearing came alive with the chirping of insects, the singing of nightbirds and the chittering of forest critters. Glaise barked happily and padded off to chase one of the moonflies that fluttered in from the treeline to dance around the pond. Jack stripped off his tunic and folded it neatly to the side before getting up and beginning to untie his breeches.  
  
Elian leaned forwards, propping himself up with his elbows and looked at Jack inquisitively. The farmboy's back was turned to Elian as he struggled to undo the knots that held his breeches in place. "Jack... What are you doing?" The platinum shook his head as though he'd been caught in a trance. His entire body very nearly turned pink as the blush crept down from his cheeks to his torso. "Jack?"  
  
The farmboy turned around to face Elian, an embarrassed sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry... Force of habit, I suppose..." Glaise barked at Jack and bounded off towards the water, making quite the ruckus as he submerged himself in what was probably a freezing cold pond. "Whenever Glaise and I came here before, we would go for a swim in the pond..." Jack stretched out a hand to Elian. Against the blond's better judgment he took the platinum's hand.  
  
The farmboy pulled him to his feet. "I would love it if you joined us..." mumbled Jack, making Elian strain to hear the words. At first he'd thought he misheard the farmboy, but the expectant gaze told him he'd not heard the proposition wrong. "Come on, Elian... It will be fun" insisted Jack, swallowing the shyness that threatened to overcome him, and instead asking Elian once more with his usual toothy grin and aplomb.  
  
Elian fidgeted. He was not entirely comfortable with the idea, but many of his inhibitions had since then abandoned him. Whether it was something in the food or drink they'd had, or simply the lack of fear that threatened to overwhelm him, the blond was finding the idea of going for a dip in the pond with Jack quite appealing. When Elian took a few seconds to respond, the platinum shrugged and tossed his breeches over Elian's head.   
  
The blond sputtered in protest, but quickly shut up and turned red when he realized what the cloth draped over his face meant. Jack had gotten naked without him noticing, and now the evidence of the farmboy's lack of clothing was obstructing the blond's vision. A peal of laughter followed by a splash echoed in the clearing as Jack jumped into the water.  
  
Elian could not deny the rapidly growing hardness in his loins at the thought of Jack being naked. His body, despite the protests of his heart and mind, had long since given up all pretense of innocence when it came to Jack, instead demanding that he give in to the primal urge that governed all men when it came to the objects of their attraction. Elian tried to look away but could not tear his eyes from the sight as Jack breached the surface of the water.  
  
The moonlight made the farmboy's platinum hair glow with a radiant halo around his head. The droplets of water that dripped from his hair glittered like liquid starlight. Elian's breath caught in his chest as he watched Jack shake his head from side to side, flinging water every which way. Glaise paddled his way over to Jack's side, licking his master's face with a cold tongue that Elian had come to know far too intimately for comfort.   
  
"Come on Elian, don't be afraid!" Jack said, throwing his arms out when he waded to shallower waters. "It's just a pond..." said the farmboy with a sheepish grin. "Besides..." he remarked cheekily, and possibly in retribution for Elian's off-handed compliment. "I've seen you naked before..." Jack, at least, had the decency to blush. "And I didn't see anything to be ashamed of."  
  
Elian's face reddened even more than he'd thought was possible. Nevertheless, despite the niggling fear at the back of his mind that nothing good had ever come of him taking a dip, despite his better judgment, Elian stripped off his tunic and lay it folded neatly right beside Jack's. The blond took the farmboy's breeches and folded them on top of Jack's tunic before turning his back to the platinum and undoing the ties on his pants.  
  
Jack tried his best to not watch, but could not tear his eyes from the sight as Elian undressed. He could feel his own cock rock hard underneath the surface of the pond despite the cold. When the blond shucked his breeches off, exposing his ass with a shy slowness that could easily be misconstrued as teasing, Jack very nearly moaned in delight.  
  
After folding his breeches and adding it to the neat pile by the corner of the blanket that Jack had brought, Elian walked over to the shore of the pond, hands clasped over his groin. The pink twinge of colour on the blond's cheeks had not left them, and Elian refused to meet Jack's eyes. The farmboy thought it was merely out of embarrassment of being naked, but the truth was, Elian was trying his best to hide an erection that simply refused to back down.  
  
Elian fidgeted right at the water's edge, apprehension shattering whatever semblance of serenity he'd had previously. At the same time, all pretense of modesty was dropped as Elian raised his clasped hands to his chest, allowing his manhood to swing into full view of Jack. The farmboy swallowed, feeling more blood rush to his cheeks and to his own tumescence. Forcing down the lump in his throat, Jack called out to Elian, who then looked at him with a look of fear that had not been there mere moments ago. "Come on, Elian. There's nothing to be afraid of."  
  
Taking a deep breath, the blond took one step into the water. For once, the water did not freeze as he touched it. Feeling emboldened, Elian waded deeper into the pond, stopping about halfway from Jack, shivering as he felt something slimy and cold slide up his naked back. "Glaise!" said Jack, sternly, and the dog paddled away from Elian. The blond looked at Jack, terrified, before breaking out into a relieved smile.  
  
The blond waded deeper into the water, his cock still rock hard under the surface, despite all his efforts to will it down. His body had long since stopped listening to his mind, and all it wanted at the moment was Jack. When he stood in front of Jack, the other man wrapped his arms around the blond and pulled him into an embrace.  
  
Elian could feel Jack's hardness jutting against his thigh, but he was sure Jack could feel his own. The blond looked down but could not see that deep into the water. He blushed even more and whispered to Jack "I'm sorry..."  
  
"About what?" asked Jack, trying to quash the pleasant tinglings that shot through his body from where his cock was rubbing up against Elian.  
  
The blond raised his eyes to Jack's. For a few moments, his mouth worked wordlessly, but he managed to get a few words out. "A-about... my..." Jack raised an eyebrow. "My... Down there..." said the blond, looking pointedly down at the water.  
  
Jack laughed at Elian's consternation about their mutual lack of clothing. "It's normal, Elian... when you see something you like." The farmboy grinned cheekily at Elian. Feeling bold, he rubbed his member up and down the blond's thigh as though to make a point. The blond shivered at the sensation. When the blond opened his mouth to protest, Jack cut him off. "Don't be dumb, Elian."  
  
For a good long while, the two young men just stared at each other, manhoods forgotten in the heat of the moment. The both broke at the same time, casting aside inhibitions, and allowing themselves to truly  _feel_. Their lips met in a tender kiss devoid of lustful passion, but filled with solidarity, comfort, and, some would dare say love. Glaise barked happily as the two refused to pull apart under the watchful eye of the moon and the glittering starlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> There's isn't really much going on other than exposition and build-up for the next chapter in this one. However, I do hope to hear feedback from you guys about this one. What do you think? What do you think of Liana? The new soldier character? The enigmatic Order that Kristoff is talking about? What Jack and Elian are doing?
> 
> On another note. +20 awesome points to whoever can guess and name how many RoTG characters have been introduced so far. :D
> 
> Here's a preview of next week's chapter!
> 
>  _"The old man was right." Kristoff raised an eyebrow at Daemon. "The Coldsnap and the Radiance_ have _fragmented." The sun priest smiled with such sweetness it was sickening. "We have both of the vessels for the Radiance."_


	16. Fragmented

"I... don't know what you're talking about" said Kristoff, eyes locked in an unseen battle with the sun priest before him. "Although, now that you say it... I'm curious." The blond swirled the ale in the tankard absentmindedly and took a swig without once taking his eye off of Daemon. "What is this about the Primal magic?" He let a small smile play on his lips. After all, he'd quite missed these games of theirs. Never mind the fact that the matter was quite serious.

The sun priest chuckled. "Don't play coy with me, Kristoff." The priest reached across the table and grasped Kristoff's hands. "It never worked back then... What makes you think it would work now?" There was a look of genuine longing in the sun priest's eyes that made Kristoff almost regret not doing anything when Daemon had deserted the Order so very long ago. "Nevertheless... I know that everyone who's anyone within a handful of miles around who knows the truth of that old story will come and try to figure out what happened here."

The sun priest withdrew his hands, leaned back on the chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Hey. Couldn't say I didn't try to get the old days back" said the blond. Daemon shook his head, a furtive smile graced his lips, but a bitter one shadowed his eyes. "Stupid. I know. It can't happen." Kristoff took another swig of ale. “Not anymore.” He added mentally. Wiping the dredges from his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked into the tankard and noticed that he'd imbibed everything. "Want one?" he asked as he motioned for one of the barmaids.

“Please” said Daemon, a pleased expression crossing his face. “I’ve heard of a traveling bard with a reindeer quite oft of late.” The sun priest smiled. “I wonder who that could have been.” Kristoff frowned. He hadn't counted on Daemon being in the area. Nevertheless, his mission was one of secrecy, and in truth, one that he could not afford the Heliades finding out about. "I suppose you're following the Coldsnap and making sure fate takes it where it's supposed to go?"

Kristoff laughed. Of course. Daemon would be the one to figure it out. In truth, though, anyone with the Sight could probably see through his glamours, and in doing so, figure out that the only reason one of the highest-ranking officers of the Order would be in such a backwater place was for the fulfillment of the Order's prime directive. "Perhaps..." Daemon raised an eyebrow quizzically at Kristoff. "But... I cannot tell you." Kristoff tapped the rim of the tankard. “But I suppose, that in itself, is an answer, is it not?” The Heliade smiled, amused.

It was Daemon's turn to laugh. The barmaid arrived with two full tankards and set one down in front of Kristoff. She set the other in front of Daemon without so much as glancing at him a second time. "Glamour?" the sun priest asked the Mage. Kristoff nodded. "Fuck knows if I need those. I'm sick and tired of these idiots bowing and scurrying for me." Daemon made a disdainful face. There was a reputation that preceded the position, and the sun priest could not quite decide whether it was a good thing or not. "Can't tell me?” Daemon chuckled. “Of course. Can't trust a Heliade."

The tone of Daemon's voice made him sound almost cheerful. Kristoff smirked. "I trust you can figure it out. You're smart." Daemon laughed. "And yes, Glamour. Right now, you're an ugly woodcutter having a drink with me, the better-looking best friend." The cheerfulness never once leaving his eyes, Kristoff's voice became grim and steely. Innocent as their conversation might have been, innocent as their drinking might have seemed, these were two of the most dangerous men in all the land. There were games being played, none of them happy ones. "Primal magic. Why?"

Daemon chuckled again, himself taking a sip from the ale. "The old man was right." The sun priest was talking about their mutual master back in their days as acolytes of the Order. "The conventional knowledge of the Masters was wrong. The Coldsnap and the Radiance did not remain intact. They fragmented." Kristoff shook his head in disbelief. There had been no evidence forthcoming so far that their mutual Master had been correct up until that moment in time. “The surge you felt, that was an Awakening. I witnessed it myself. Truth be told, none of us had expected it.”

“Bullshit” whispered Kristoff, still not quite believing what he was hearing. “Master Cregein was himself convinced it would not happen for millennia more if it did.” Daemon smirked across the table at Kristoff, shrugging nonchalantly as he took a further sip of his ale. “Truth be told, however, I’m not convinced you’re lying.” The blond leaned over the table and locked eyes with the sun priest. “You really do believe it was an Awakening and that it’s happened thousands of years before Cregein predicted it.” Kristoff sighed and leaned back on his chair. “If you witnessed it, then that must mean you control both Manifest shards of the Radiance.”

“Blondie and Redhead.” Daemon nodded, a small smile playing upon his lips. “And the Order controls none.” Kristoff laughed bitterly and nodded. “You people are toying with powers beyond your control. Cregein should have been a Heliade, what with how he protested against using the Coldsnap and Radiance without knowing what it would do to the artefacts. Hell, without knowing what it would do period.” Daemon’s hand darted out and grabbed Kristoff’s wrist. “Why do you continue to fight for them when you know that bringing the two artefacts together once more will open the Way to the Ginnunggagap?” The tone of the exchange had changed almost instantaneously, and a cold unspoken rivalry hung in the air. It was not their own. It was a rivalry that had begun at the fall of Old Vamara. It was a rivalry that caused the fall and sprung from it.

“For knowledge” whispered Kristoff. Perhaps his words would have been drowned out by the dull roar of the tavern’s noise, but everyone chose that very moment to fall silent. A strand of Kristoff’s hair turned gray and shriveled away into dust, raining down onto the table. The silence was enough, and Daemon heard the words clearly. The sun priest paled as he watched a part of Kristoff die. “Didn’t know, did you?” Kristoff moved his hand so that he was gripping Daemon’s wrist even as the sun priest gripped his. His grip was tighter, knuckles turning pale with the strain.

“Maybe… Maybe I could try to move fate so much that it would bring all four shards together again?” Daemon shook his head, not liking the idea. Kristoff shook his too, but an understanding passed between them. If it ever came to that, they both knew that the Mage would follow through on his threat. Such a colossal re-routing of the flow of fate would cause untold chaos and disaster. Countless lives would be lost. “It would be like moving a mountain. Probably even worse. It would kill thousands, myself probably included.” The blond laughed, bitterness evident in his words. “But then, I wouldn’t be able to see for myself what would happen when the Way is opened again…”

“Selfish reason…” Daemon muttered, eyes still locked with Kristoff’s. It had been a long time since he’d last been this genuinely terrified. To be in the presence of a Mage was to invite misfortune, as the old saying goes. “I’d never thought he would pass it on to you. I thought he would let the power die with him. We all wanted him to take the power with him.” There. Daemon could see a dull resentment in Kristoff’s eyes. “You never wanted these powers did you?” The blond blinked. “You are so tempted to just use them to violate all the rules of magic and gain access to limitless, forbidden knowledge, but you know it will destroy you so you don’t.” The sun priest shook his head. “You are oh so selfish. But fuck if I know, it’s your selfishness that will save us all.”

Kristoff smiled ruefully. “Selfish. Sure.” He stared at his drink for a good long while before raising his eyes and looking at Daemon once again. “I’m sure you heard.” Daemon raised an eyebrow. “The Lady Elesyne…” The sun priest recalled. One of Cregein’s supporters, and one of the most avid believers in his theory of fragmentation. “The Lady Elesyne managed to make the Coldsnap Manifest in the young prince of Vamara. There was no known Manifestation before, and all the signs indicated that there wasn’t one.” Daemon did know the tale. After all, both Orders had eyes and ears everywhere. “However, did you know that she wove the spell for two?” The Heliade leaned in, interested. That was a facet of the tale that had never reached the ears of the Heliades. “We — the ones who were confident in Cregein — believed the second weaving had been a failure. Now I’m not so sure.”

“It’s a shame she’s passed on, then” whispered Daemon. “Then, neither Order can know where the second Manifest shard, if it exists, is. That being said, none of us know where the young Prince is either. Last we heard of him, he’d murdered a woman in an obscure town. He hasn’t resurfaced since.” The slight turning of Kristoff’s lips told the Heliade all he needed to know. The blond knew something he did not. Nevertheless, Daemon was sure he would not get the information out of the blond. For all he knew, Kristoff would make him forget everything they’d just talked about on a whim. Such was the power of the Mage… For the longest time the Heliades had thought the Power had passed with Master Cregein’s death. No, it had passed on to someone far more formidable in the art of war than he.

“Nor have we heard anything” said Kristoff, realizing too late that he’d let slip the fact that he knew something. The smirk on the sun priest’s face was a plain signal that he had betrayed his own confidence. His heart sank, but he knew that he had his Magecraft to fall back on should he need it. “How go matters at the Heart?” he asked, turning the tide of the conversation away from the young Elian Calland and Jack Frost. There was one place that the Order had yet to infiltrate — the fortress-city of Lycc. The bastion of the Heliades, and the guardian of the Heart and the Rift within.

Daemon spat. “Mater is trying her best. For years we’ve tried to seal the Rift, prevent the Middleworlds creatures from entering this plane. Nothing worked. Now we know why. The Radiance is not complete.” Kristoff nodded. He’d suspected they would use Blondie for the matter. Everyone knew the boy could heal anything so long as the golden strands of his hair were wound about it and Mater’s Dirge was sang. “We’ve sent word, and soon, hopefully, we shall be able to close that wound from so long ago. That wound that could have been avoided had the Order simply listened to Cregein.” Kristoff nodded. There was one thing both their orders agreed upon, at least. That the Rift, the wound in the very fabric of the world, should be closed.

The Rift was a portal to a realm that existed before Creation, and the beasts within were filled with an eldritch strength that both the Heliades and the Order knew would destroy the world given the chance. The Rift was a gaping wound. A festering one. It was because of the failure of the Order to see what bringing the artefacts together would cause that reality itself was wounded. “And the blademanes?” he asked, betraying his relative lack of knowledge about the Rift and the creatures within.

“Those wretched Middleworlds creatures are the least of our concerns. They may be many, but there are far worse in the Ginnunggagap than even the Order knows about” said the sun priest grimly. He looked pointedly at Kristoff, but the Mage simply shrugged. All the more reason to bring the artefacts together again, in his mind. If they wanted to purge the world of the middleworlds creatures that had made it through before either Order had rallied together to stop them, then they needed to know more about those beasts.

“Then we must get both the Coldsnap and the Radiance together so that we may open a portal in a controlled manner to study the creatures of the Middleworlds.” Kristoff said with a sickly sweet smile that made Daemon want to retch not out of disgust, but the sheer game of the smile. It was a smile that promised no surrender.

Nevertheless, the sun priest answered with an equally appalling smile of his own. “Neither I nor Mater will let that happen.”

\---

“Jack…” whimpered Elian as the farmboy kissed along his jaw and down the curve of his neck. Where the sheltered boy had learned such manner of sensuality, the blond could not fathom. In truth, he needed only think deeper on the matter, and the truth would have come and displayed itself for him. Jack had watched his parents in their moments of intimacy on more than one occasion. Neither Nyko nor Kyle had been prude about their sexuality, but whether they knew about Jack’s spying, the farmboy was uncertain. Those images of Kyle writhing in ecstasy under Nyko’s ministrations had never quite left the platinum’s mind, and those very sounds and motions were what the farmboy was set on extracting from the blond.

The water did nothing to dampen the fiery passion that had been stoked between the two young men. Not even the cold pond as it rippled just under their collarbones could quell the stiffness that both Elian and Jack felt in their members. Jack kissed Elian, a small smile on his face as he did. A soft moan escaped his lips as his sensitive glans grazed against the blond’s thigh. Elian laughed a light-hearted laugh, one free of bitterness and regret as Jack’s lips danced against his own. Jack’s eyes lit up at the musical sound. That laugh was what he’d expected from a creature as beautiful as Elian. He wanted more of it. Gently, playfully, the farmboy pushed Elian away and dove deeper into the water.

For a moment, fear spoiled the happiness on Elian’s face, but it was as fleeting as the breeze that then decided to blow across the surface of the pond. With ripples guiding his way, the blond summoned a courage that had long since left him when it came to water, and dove after the farmboy. The moment Elian submerged his head, he felt a cloying terror that lanced out from him in the form of bolts of ice that froze the water as they did. Why the moon chose that moment to shine brighter, Jack was not sure, but had it not, he might not have seen Elian curled up in a fetal position underneath the rippling surface of the pond, frost lightning arcing from his body. Alarmed, the farmboy swam as fast as he could back to his… beloved.

Yes, that was it, he mused for a moment as he propelled himself through the cold pond towards Elian. The blond had quite quickly and quite strongly become his beloved. Perhaps he would never voice his feelings, not since the blond was leaving in a matter of weeks if not days, but acknowledging that he’d probably fallen in love lifted a burden off his chest that had bothered him since it had wormed its way there. Wrapping his arms around the blond, Jack brought Elian back to the surface. The blond’s eyes were squeezed shut, and he was shivering despite himself. Jack stroked Elian’s cheek and placed a kiss on the blond’s forehead.

Almost instantly, the tumultuous fear in Elian’s heart ebbed away. The blond cracked his eyes open and threw his arms around Jack, trembling slightly from the sheer terror he’d experienced. Guilt was bubbling in the pit of his stomach, but feeling the farmboy’s arms around him, feeling the warmth of another human being, a warmth he’d not come to expect out of someone who had the Ice, pushed it down. “Jack…” whispered the blond, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry…”

The farmboy shook his head and brushed away lock of hair plastered to Elian’s forehead and brought his own against the blond’s. “It’s alright… It’s alright…” Jack moved in and grasped Elian’s lips in his own with a tenderness that sent calm to the blond’s heart to still his trembling body. “And there’s nothing to be sorry about…” he said as he pulled away from Elian. “Don’t be dumb, Elian.” He said with a grin. He’d managed to remove one of his arms from around Elian without the blond noticing. Just as he feigned moving in for another kiss, he surprised the blond with a splash of water to the face.

The blond sputtered in protest, but Jack placed his index finger on Elian’s lips to silence him before he could speak. A moment’s silence passed between them before the farmboy grabbed Elian’s hand firmly but gently in his own and tugged him insistently towards the middle of the pond, towards deeper waters. “There’s nothing…” he whispered, squeezing the blond’s hand reassuringly as he did “… to be afraid of, Elian. Nothing.” The blond bit his lip, trembling as he tentatively took one step with Jack. “That’s it…” Throughout the entire ordeal, Jack’s hand never left Elian’s, and the comforting pressure did not relent for one moment.

As time passed, and as Jack held him, guiding him, assuring him that there was truly nothing to fear, Elian began to grow more and more comfortable with being in the water with the farmboy that had saved his life. Both young men were naked, and truth be told, Elian was beginning to like their current state of undress. “Come on” said Jack as they treaded the water very near the heart of the pond. For a moment, the blond was mystified about where Jack wanted him to go. It took him a moment to realize that Jack wanted them both to go underneath the otherwise placid surface of the pond. Glaise was, in his usual candor, paddling around them quite happily. “Don’t be afraid…” said Jack cautiously as he slowly let go of Elian’s hand.

A momentary bolt of fear struck Elian, but he forced it down, not wanting to have another of his panic attacks in the middle of the pond. “That’s it…” cooed Jack, stroking the side of Elian’s face before smiling and descending underneath the pond. The moon shone brighter, revealing the farmboy as he went deeper into the pond. The blond took a deep breath, stilling his racing heart before diving down clumsily after Jack. A brief moment of panic sent the blond scrambling back for the surface almost as soon as he was entirely submerged, making the farmboy swim urgently up towards him. “Elian…” said the platinum as he pulled the blond into his arms a second time. There was a sympathetic smile on his face. “Alright. Slower, this time?”

Lips sealed shut by the shock he’d gone through not too long ago, Elian nodded mutely and took Jack’s hand in his own one more time. The farmboy, this time, eased his descent into the water, bringing the blond with him as he went. The slower pace, and the lack of an expectation that he would be able to follow set the thundering gallop of the blond’s heart to a healthy canter. Though fear was slowly being sapped from his limbs, Elian’s eyes were still squeezed shut, not quite ready to take in the sights of the alien world underneath the rippling surface. Slowly, calmly, they ascended to breathe. “That’s better…” said Jack with a chuckle. Having the farmboy’s hand reassuringly squeezing his definitely helped with getting the blond accustomed to the water. It had been years since he’d last dared.

With a quick kiss that made both young men blush under the pale light of the moon, Jack pulled Elian back towards the centre of the pond. “Keep your eyes open this time, alright?” he said with a grin. He wanted Elian to see the magical world under the pond. Sure, it paled in comparison to the rest of the clearing in the moonlight, but it was alluring all on its own.

“Alright…” croaked Elian, squeezing Jack’s hand. “I-I’ll try my best” he said with a small smile on his lips. He would. He trusted Jack. Somewhat, at least. Part of him still rebelled against the idea of trusting Jack, but that part had grown almost infinitesimally small. With each passing moment that Jack was like this with him, gentle, warm, caring, careful, that part of him grew ever smaller. “Alright.” Repeated the blond, squeezing and shaking the farmboy’s hand to steel himself for what was about to come.

When the farmboy breathed deeply, Elian was almost caught off-guard but he did as Jack did, earning him a grin from the platinum. Slowly, they descended through the water. As head and shoulders became submerged the moonlight in the clearing intensified, illuminating the depths of the pond almost as though it was day. The blond did his best to keep his eyes open, and was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted him. In the bright moonlight that streamed in through the rippling surface of the pond, Jack seemed almost ethereal as he gently coaxed Elian deeper into the pond that he’d not expected to be so deep at its heart.

Gossamer strands of pale light danced languidly across Jack’s skin, making the farmboy seem to glow with an empyreal halo. Elian’s heart thudded heavily in his chest. His stomach fluttered with butterflies. He’d not thought another man could look so beautiful. The light that danced over Jack clung to his every curve, accentuating the strong musculature of his back, the slender taper of his torso to his hips, the supple roundness of his ass and made his hair shine with a brilliance that was just… stunning. The blond felt his cock throb in need at the sight. Feelings he’d thought he would never feel again were rearing their heads within him. The mere thought of being so near Jack filled him with a warmth he could not fathom nor even attempt to explain. The farmboy’s hand around his, in truth, felt almost like a furnace, filling him with heat, stoking his passion, and ensuring that the fear was kept at bay by the comfort that it inspired.

Despite himself, Elian found a smile plastered on his face. It was a genuine one, a long-deserved smile despite his misgivings, despite his beliefs otherwise. It was at that moment that Jack decided to turn around and face him, halting their slow descent. The farmboy saw the blond’s upturned lips and smiled himself. Elian couldn’t help but look down at the pillar of pale flesh jutting from Jack’s groin. Lust was quickly overwhelming his mind. A beast growled within him. Jack’s eyes were glittering with a sincere happiness that made Elian’s heart flutter again. The farmboy pulled him in and they floated there, a fair way above the floor of the pond, just wrapped around each other, erections momentarily forgotten.

Just as Elian began to feel his lungs burning from the lack of air, Jack pulled him up to the surface and off to the side where they could remain above water without treading. “Jack…” began Elian, feeling emboldened by the lust running through his veins and the thumping of his heart. He caressed the side of Jack’s face. “I… I never thought…” The blond could feel tears welling in his eyes, making them glimmer with a watery sheen in the still-bright moonlight. “I never thought I would feel these things again…” Jack blushed, meeting Elian’s gaze before moving back in for a kiss. “I…” before he could finish what he was about to say, Jack placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. The farmboy then began insistently tugging at his hand back towards the centre of the pond.

Moments later they were back under the water, and when Elian finally managed to rip his eyes from the allure of Jack’s body, he found the world underneath the ripples almost equally enchanting. The very same wispy patterns of light that danced upon the farmboy’s skin illuminated the floor of the pond. The spectacle was marvelous to behold. In the blond’s experience, most ponds had been silt-ridden or murky under the surface, but not this one. Under the bright light of the moon, the water itself seemed to shine. The floor of the pond was strewn with loose silt and gravel, but intermittently, plants with dimly glowing bulbs sprung forth from underneath them. The bulbs swayed from side to side in water stirred by the springs that bubbled from underneath. Small fountains of tiny smooth stones told of where the pond received its water.

Here and there were a few fish, swimming about shyly, avoiding the two intruders in their underwater home. Though the fish were few, perhaps only because the others were hiding elsewhere in the pond, they were of a dazzling variety. Elian could see brief glimmers of gold, silver, green, red, and blue in the pale light as fish darted around them, seeking shelter in the loose stones of the pond floor or behind the verdant protrusions of freshwater kelp from the silt. Elian couldn’t help the smile that split his face in appreciation of the majesty of the underwater world in the clearing. It was not nearly as magical as the world above, but it held an allure all its own all the same.

When they reached the deepest point in the pond, Jack pulled the blond closer and they found themselves entangled, limbs wrapped quite tightly around each other in passionate embrace. Despite the intrinsic coolness of the water that enveloped them, the warmth of their skins almost melding together in closeness was enough to keep the fire of passion — and its evidence in their hard cocks — present. They kissed, lips meeting in a dance filled with longing and gratefulness before, simultaneously feeling the burn in their lungs from the lack of air, they untangled their legs and propelled themselves up to where the light of the moon shone brightest.

As they broke the surface, they separated from each other to draw a quick gasping breath before moving back in for another kiss. They floated there for a moment, legs intermittently keeping them from sinking back underneath the water. At first Elian did not notice it since his soaked hair was sending rivulets of pondwater down his face, but soon enough he realized that there were warm trickles of water rolling down his cheeks. He knew he wasn’t crying, which only left one possible cause. Jack was. He pushed Jack gently away, but the farmboy averted his gaze before slowly paddling them towards shallower waters. “Jack…”

When their feet were firmly set on the loose silt nearer to the shore, Elian gently took Jack’s chin in his hand and turned the farmboy’s face towards him. It was indubitable that he had been crying. His eyes were reddened and seemed puffy. “Jack… What’s wrong?”

The farmboy trembled at the question. He shook his head and stared Elian in the eye. “I…” Jack began but faltered, fear for a moment preventing the words from leaving his lips. The platinum breathed deeply, his arms almost imperceptibly tightening around Elian. “I… I think I’ve fallen in love with you…”

\---

Kristoff raised an eyebrow at Daemon, bemused. It had been years since they were last together, and a part of the blond seemed quite content with how things had gone since then. They’d never been meant to last, he’d managed to convince himself over the years. Their relationship back then, from its very onset, had been a torrent of emotion and passion that made the halls of the Tower ring with their cries of lovemaking each night. That being said, most nights the lonely corridors of the tower rang with the moans of men fucking men, but without fail, Kristoff and Daemon had been louder than every single coupling in that hidden place of solitude. Needless to say, their superiors met the young lovers with both consternation and admiration. After all, they had all been reversals, and there was nothing quite as arousing as two young virile men having a go at each other.

Now, Kristoff very much doubted that Daemon had very many of those same nights to himself. The Heliades, after all, maintained a vow of chastity, at least on the surface. Nevertheless, he was sure that the sun priest had not had quite as passionate a coupling as the many they had had so very long ago since they had been together. Perhaps there was a chance he could gather more information from his old lover, and get to feel a warm body against his for a chance, if he offered. Kristoff took a swig of his ale, eyes turning sultry and never leaving Daemon even once. The sun priest leaned forward, amused smile gracing his lips. “You and Mater…” The Heliade smiled wider and shook his head with a chuckle. “Never thought you were the type to get close to her.” Daemon smirked. “In any case. Since I have you captive right now, care to relive a night with your old friend?”

“Hardly a captive, Kristoff…” said the sun priest with a rather shockingly coy smile as he raised his unbound, and evidently-free hands above his head. “Though I must say… I always knew you liked it that way.” A couple strands of Kristoff’s hair turned to dust as loops of rope fashioned ex nihilo wound themselves around Daemon’s raised hands. The sun priest looked up at his now loosely-bound wrists with wide eyes, then glared at Kristoff. A moment passed as they stared at each other. Kristoff with a bemused grin as he sipped his ale, and Daemon with an expression of mock anger writ on his face. Another moment passed before the two burst out laughing. “Oh Kristoff… Why must you insist on defending the Order? You must join me again…”

“I rather like my cock free, Daemon” said Kristoff, gesturing towards the sun priest’s crotch concealed underneath his silken breeches. He knew that underneath the regalia of his order, the sun priest was wearing garments much more symbolic of the Heliades. He’d seen it before both in prisoners of war and defectors that the Order had reconditioned to return to life outside the Heliades. Theirs was the symbol of submission, impotent and humble. The Order’s was one of virility and fertility, phallic like the Tower that was their home and base of operations. “Though, I’m sure one night cannot possibly hurt, old friend.” He smiled, himself feeling more than a little aroused by the idea of bedding his once-lover and now-rival after thirty-seven years.

The sun priest warily looked around. The sun had just set. The moon was yet to rise. By any and all measures of the one comfort allowed to the Heliades, he was free to talk of what happened where the sun could shed no light. “You can have it free all you want so long as the sun cannot see you, Kristoff” muttered Daemon under his breath. The blond sputtered and coughed as he managed to choke on his drink at the unexpected revelation. Kristoff fixed the sun priest with such a sweltering gaze that the Heliade couldn’t help but feel as though the blond was using his magecraft to extract the truth of the statement from him. “You still have to wear it for three years… but after that, you’re free save for on the surface world.”

The blond scoffed. “Intriguing offer, Daemon, but I’m not ready to give up three years of my life locked up.” There had been a nigh-imperceptible sparkle in the sun priest’s eye when he’d seen Kristoff’s discerning expression. Some naive part of him hoped, against its better judgment, if it had any, that perhaps the Mage would truly consider joining the Heliades. “But I cannot pursue the knowledge I wish to acquire through your people.” There was a hint of sadness in the blond’s voice. It made the subtle flutterings in Daemon’s chest feel all the more palpable. “So I must refuse.”

The Heliade simply smiled at the Mage, the realization that truly things would never return to how they once were between them only just setting in after their less-than-pleasant separation thirty-seven years ago. “Understandable” said Daemon slowly, unable to help the undertone of disappointment that rolled off his lips as he spoke those words. “Entirely understandable.” He repeated, firmer. “If I might ask you to untie me?” he asked, almost shyly, reduced to a barely-thinking monkey by emotions that he’d long since thought were gone. Buried. Forgotten.

Against his better judgment, similarly clouded by the selfsame emotions that were plaguing Daemon across the table, Kristoff shook his head and instead conjured up another length of rope connected to the coil wrapped around the Heliade’s wrists. “You haven’t answered my question…” He said in a sultry voice as he pulled the sun priest towards him. Instinctively, Daemon followed. Submissiveness hammered onto him by his order coming to the forefront. “One night is all I ask.”

Flustered, through no fault of his own but the relentless conditioning imposed upon the Heliades, Daemon could feel the colour rushing to his cheeks. Kristoff smiled and they, Mage and priest, knew in that instant that Daemon was definitely under the blond’s spell. “Mater would never approve…” A dangerous smirk twisted Kristoff’s lips. An even more dangerous gleam shone in his bright eyes. “But…” said Daemon, choking out the words from the lump in his throat put there by years of repressed sexual frustration. The almost imperceptible tremble of his body in arousal was enough to draw another predatory gleam to the Mage’s eyes.

“But…” said Kristoff in a lower, gravelly voice that sent shivers up Daemon’s spine and made his cock ache impotently in its steel cage. “But what she doesn’t know…” The Mage pulled on the rope with a strength that the sun priest had either forgotten, or simply not known he possessed. Daemon inelegantly slid halfway over the table, spilling his tankard of mead all over the floor. He squirmed but was unable to pull away from the knots that seemed to tighten themselves the more he struggled. He looked around, eyes darting frantically all over the tavern, fearing that someone would notice. Not even the closest tables seemed to mind that a tied-up sun priest was being dragged over a table. Daemon suspected a strong glamour.

As though to confirm his speculation, a clump of Kristoff’s hair became brittle and turned to dust. How the man managed to keep a healthy mop of hair, Daemon could not fathom. Perhaps it was simply that the blond was as strict with using his powers as the Heliades were about chastity. The more the sun priest considered it, the more it seemed to him as though Kristoff would make a good Heliade. Nevertheless, those were not the words that left his mouth. Almost as though working of their own accord, his lips gave voice to words his deepest desires had tried desperately to hold on to. “What she doesn’t know… cannot possibly hurt me…”

“Exactly…” said Kristoff with a smirk as he grabbed Daemon by the shoulder and gently shoved him off the table. The Mage practically dragged Daemon by the wrists towards the tavern-master, nodding his head at Iven and tossing him a silver mark before saying. “I’d like a room for the two of us for the night.” To the tavern-master, the Heliade was a big-chested woman dressed almost scandalously. Where the other man had found her, Iven was not so sure. He shook his head and tossed a key to the blond.

“Second door on the right” grunted the portly man as he examined the silver mark that he’d been given. It was more than enough to pay for lodgings at his tavern. Far more, in fact, but he wasn’t about to tell the merchant who had so nonchalantly thrown the coin at him. Satisfied that the silver was genuine, though it was of a mint that he was unfamiliar with, Iven pocketed the money and shooed the two off. Kristoff smiled at the tavern-master before pulling Daemon up the stairs. Glamours, the Mage mused, were particularly useful in fooling the mundane and keeping them in the dark. Unfortunately, those who knew well the arcane art were less easy to fool. Daemon had demonstrated that, seeing Kristoff almost instantly despite his glamour.

Needless to say, those thoughts were very brief in their existence, left by the wayside by thirty-seven years of longing and lust. Before they could even reach their room, Kristoff already had the sun priest pinned against a wall, their lips smushed together in a less-than-graceful show of dominance and submissiveness. Daemon could feel his cock leaking as it often did when he was feeling more than a little aroused. There was power to be had in his position as one of the most valued Heliades, but often, it meant that he would not gain the reprieve of their underground sanctuaries for long periods of time. Even then, respite would be brief and more frustrating than satisfying in the end.

“It’s been so long…” said Kristoff, grinding his hips against Daemon’s. Had he been in a more lucid state of mind, the metal mound that surrounded the sun priest’s crotch would have probably made him reconsider. Fortunately for the two, lust had taken root and rationality had been thrown to the wind in both of them. Unable to control the sheer want coursing through his veins, the sun priest moaned into Kristoff’s lips, back arching into the Mage’s firm body. “So very long…” whispered the blond when he tore himself from Daemon and dragged the Heliade into the room they’d been given.

Once within, Kristoff growled “On the bed” with a deep voice that sent chills tingling up and down Daemon’s spine. A voice that made his cock throb impotently in its constricting plight. Titillated by the pleasurable possibilities the night might bring, the Heliade did exactly as he was told. His arms were beginning to get a little sore from being pulled on but the blond had let go of him and the ropes allowed him enough freedom of movement to adjust them into a more comfortable position. Kristoff, on the other hand, was working on getting the hearth lit. How the humble tavern had hearths in its rooms was beyond him. Perhaps it had been an inn some time ago. Nevertheless, all that was less than pertinent.

The fire crackled into life, the first few embers from the kindling flying dangerously close to Kristoff’s face. There would be no need for the candles on the drawers by the beds. The firelight from the hearth was enough to illuminate the small room. The blond peeled off his vest and his tunic with his back to the sun priest. The sight made Daemon’s breath catch. The Mage had gotten more built than the sun priest remembered, and seeing the evidence of that was all the more arousing for him. The blond turned, musculature rippling in the fluid motion as he faced the Heliade. The front was far better than the back, mused Daemon, the Mage’s chiseled chest and abdomen caught light in a way that made him whimper in want and pain as his cock tried to get hard in its prison.

Kristoff smiled, seeing the effect of his body on Daemon. He leaned over the other man, lying back on the bed. The blond brushed his hands through the sun priest’s light brown locks, caressing his cheeks almost lovingly afterwards. The moment was intimate, a relic of their old relationship, and Daemon could not help the sigh that escaped his lips. It was over almost as soon as it had started and an animalistic growl ripped itself from Kristoff’s throat as he saw the sun priest’s eyes dilated in excitement and subservience. The Mage knelt by the side of the bed and pulled off the sun priest’s trousers. He made a sound of annoyance as the cloth slid over the metal of Daemon’s Cage.

The sun priest keened in frustration when Kristoff rubbed his hand over the sleek, slightly-warm steel of the chastity belt that kept Daemon soft despite his cock wanting to be as hard as a rock. The blond sighed, electing to instead just lick up the pre-come that was dribbling out of the piss hole of the cage. The sun priest growled, wanting, without a doubt, that warm wet tongue to be exploring his cock instead of the steel that kept him from experiencing true sexual release. “Do you want me to take it off?” whispered Kristoff, the words clear in the silence of the room in spite of the softness of the blond’s voice. “Although… It’s starting to grow on me, seeing you vulnerable like this…” The sun priest shook his head. Gods. He was in for a world of trouble if they found that the belt had been tampered with.

The Mage shrugged and smiled, continuing to lap at the salty-sweet juice that leaked out of Daemon’s impotent arousal. When the sun priest groaned, so full of arousal but being stimulated in no manner that would relieve it, Kristoff waggled a finger in his face. The once-dignified Heliade grabbed it, hand and all, and started to wantonly suck on it, hoping that the blond would stick the finger inside him. The sheer abandon of Daemon in lathering his hand with spit made Kristoff’s considerable length throb in his breeches. He could almost feel a wet spot growing on the front of his trousers from his own pre-come.

Daemon groaned when Kristoff pulled his hands away, watching with increasing excitement as the finger slick with his spit was drawn further, a single strand of saliva clinging almost desperately to it. He writhed from his position, spreading his legs far apart as he could to give the Mage access to that most intimate part of him. The blond made a sound of frustration as Daemon spread his legs. There was a leather strip running down the sun priest’s crack, blocking the Mage’s access to his rosebud. Kristoff shoved the strip aside and scooped up a glob of the pre-come that dripped seemingly perpetually from Daemon’s Cage. Using that and the sun priest’s spit on his fingers, the Mage rubbed his finger around the twitching hole.

The Heliade keened in pleasure, more pre-come leaking out of his half-hard constrained cock. “P-please…” he groaned. The blond managed to extract a moan from the brunet priest by pushing just the tip of his finger into the waiting hole and wriggling it around. Daemon whined at the burning discomfort, but the promise of more to come was far too enticing. Satisfied by the reaction, Kristoff used his free hand to push the priest’s legs even further apart while he continued to lap up the pre-come from the brunet’s Cage. The blond pushed in his finger up to the knuckle, thrusting it languidly in and out of the pulsing hole. Daemon was whining all the while, his cock seeming to not have learned the lesson that thirty-seven years had taught him: there was no escaping the Cage.

Kristoff inserted another finger, scissoring them open and closed to stretch the tight orifice before curling them to give Daemon even more pleasure. He curled his fingers once. He managed to extract a deep-throated moan from the Heliade. He curled his fingers a second time, trying to find that button deep within that he knew existed within every man. The same button he always tried to find whenever he had a spare moment to spill his seed. Daemon’s toes curled, and he tightened his fists, bound as they were by the rope around his wrists. Kristoff was getting closer. The blond curled his fingers a third time, managing to graze the sun priest’s prostate. Daemon found his limbs stiffening and his back arching off of the bed in absolute bliss. “Please…” A moan split the night. “Please… More…” demanded the sun priest breathlessly.

He felt Kristoff bob his head in agreement from the movement it caused his Cage. The Mage was all too happy to oblige, inserting a third finger into Daemon. Then a fourth. Contorting his body in a manner he did not think was possible, Daemon moved his arms so that he could grab Kristoff’s hair. “I need you inside me” he demanded, face flushed entirely red by arousal. He would find no release by grabbing his member, as he was sure Kristoff would have done had his hands not been otherwise busy, but perhaps the blond’s cock could milk the cum out of him. The Mage grunted, but the Heliade was not quite sure if it was assent or frustration at how demanding Daemon was being. It was the latter. In annoyance, the blond slapped his ass cheek quite hard, bringing a whimper to his lips.

“You get what I decide you get when I want you to get it” growled Kristoff, authority palpable in the gravelly voice that he used. When he stood from his reverence for Daemon’s pre-come he loomed over the sun priest, almost terrifying were it not for the lust-filled expression that his eyes carried. The blond leaned over the bed, pinning Daemon down by his shoulders. Kristoff then grabbed the chain that held the sun priest’s cloak together and ripped it clean off with no effort whatsoever. The Heliade whimpered at the ease with which the Mage desecrated the supposedly-enchanted insignia of his order. His cloak fell around him even as the blond took a hold of his tunic and tore it apart as though it were brittle parchment. Again, the Heliade whimpered. The silk had been expensive, after all, and so much for Mater not finding out about this little tryst of his with the enemy.

Nevertheless, the sheer dominance that Kristoff was demonstrating prevented any thought of balking at whatever he was asked to do. The blond pushed him over. He tumbled over himself, and found his face smushed into the sheets, ass raised into the air. Kristoff clambered onto the bed and reclined by the pillows. His breeches were still on, but there was a large, growing wet spot where his cock was leaking. “Worship me” demanded the blond in a voice that was uncharacteristic of him under public scrutiny but one that Daemon was all too used to hearing in private. His hands still tied together, he wormed his way towards Kristoff, managing, with great difficulty, to grind his face up against the Mage’s crotch.

Once there, he breathed deeply, the manly musk of the other man making the lust in his veins surge even stronger. He had magic, and deep within he knew that he could break free at any moment, but the greater part of him suppressed his arcane art. He looked up at Kristoff, deep brown eyes shining with a momentary shade of the very same devotion that was beaten into the Heliades for their sun gods. “Get on with it” said the blond as Daemon focused once again on the throbbing member hidden by the coarse breechcloth in front of him. Kristoff smiled, grateful to have slid easily and comfortably back into the role he’d used to play with Daemon.

Using his teeth, the sun priest grabbed the ties that held the blond’s breeches together and pulled them apart before taking the cloth in his mouth and wriggling away to release the cock that he so desired. He made a little progress as Kristoff chuckled at how the sun priest had become such a willing pawn. A sliver of hair crumbled away again. He was plying his Magecraft. Daemon was not entirely in control of himself at the moment. After a few minutes of struggling, the brunet had finally managed to free the blond’s cockhead. The only warning that the Mage got was a warm breath over it before it was assaulted by sucking and licking. Kristoff threw his head back, groaning in pleasure.

Unsatisfied with the tasty morsel, but emboldened by it all the same, Daemon caught the breechcloth by his teeth and managed to drag it all the way down the blond’s legs. Seeing that there was no use keeping the article of clothing on the bed, Kristoff sat up from where he was reclining and pushed the Heliade away as he removed the breeches altogether and tossed them to the side. As soon as he was back in place, arms folded behind his head so he could see Daemon clearly, the sun priest was back to assaulting his cock with his skillful mouth. The sun priest had evidently had practice. Truth be told, cocksucking was pretty much all the sexual release he managed in between missions. His developed skill showed, his ability to pleasure with his mouth was downright masterful.

His cock was halfway down Daemon’s greedy gullet, cockhead tickling the back of the sun-priest’s throat and spittle dripping down the sides, when Kristoff shuddered in pleasure, drawing a pleased sound from the Heliade. After taking Kristoff down to the root thrice, the sun priest grinned and removed his mouth from around the blond’s throbbing meat. He went down licking the shaft all the way before gently suckling on the two full orbs that hung underneath it. He was met with a pleasured grunt from the Mage, and, emboldened, continued suckling with more abandon. His cock throbbed impatiently in its cage, wanting release. A large wet pool had already formed where his pre-come had dripped onto the sheets.

One of Kristoff’s nuts halfway into his mouth, the sun priest grunted in surprise when he felt the ropes around his wrists fall away. “I know what you want to do” whispered the blond, making Daemon tingle pleasantly all over. One hand gathered up some spit that was dribbling from the shaft of the blond’s cock, slicked up a finger and pushed it into Kristoff’s hole. The Mage winced, the feeling of being penetrated being foreign after so long. He spread his legs to give the sun priest more access. When he got more used to the finger wriggling inside him, looking for his button, he smiled. Daemon’s other hand was behind him, fingering his own hole, moaning like a bitch in heat as he continued suckling at Kristoff’s nuts.

Tired of the almost-too gentle ministrations, the blond grabbed the sides of Daemon’s head and rammed his cock down the sun priest’s throat with no warning. Reflexively, the Heliade curled his fingers inside Kristoff, inadvertently hitting the blond’s prostate. The pressure on his most erogenous spot combined with the slick wet warmth of Daemon’s gullet made the blond see stars, bucking his hips and making the sun priest gag on the spurts of cum that shot out of his member. Coughing, the sun priest tore his head away only to be met by another spurt that lay a strand of sticky seed across his face.

The sun priest opened his mouth, licking at the cum that started to drip down into his tongue. The scene was obscene, considering the rather dignified expression the sun priest had had at the beginning of his meeting with Kristoff. The blond would not have had it any other way. He grabbed his cock and wiped it all over Daemon’s face, pre-come and seed mixing in a slippery sheen that caught the firelight from the hearth. There was a sheen of sweat on Kristoff’s chiseled chest and abdomen, making him seem to glimmer in the dim light. Feeling emboldened, Daemon pushed himself onto the blond after placing one last kiss on the Mage’s still-throbbing cock.

The blond groaned, feeling intense arousal as the sun priest began to lick every single shimmering droplet of sweat that had formed on him. The warm wet muscle was swirling around his skin, surprisingly sensitive after that almost mind-numbing orgasm he had just had. The Heliade loved the salty taste of the sweat and the masculine musk that it produced. He ran his tongue around Kristoff’s nipples, making the blond writhe underneath him. Suddenly painfully aware that perhaps his control over Daemon was slipping, the blond grabbed both of the sun priest’s arms and pulled them down. The Heliade found himself suddenly flat on Kristoff’s chest, a better situation than it sounded. Nevertheless, he let out a whine of displeasure, the fingers in his ass having been pulled out so unceremoniously.

The brunet felt empty. He wanted something inside him. Anything. It was the only pleasure he could get so long as he had his Cage on. Unfortunately for him, the blond was bent on getting control of the situation back and they lay there for a few minutes, Kristoff’s hard cock rubbing every so teasingly up and down the sun priest’s slippery crack. Every drip of pre-come on his rosebud, the sun priest felt acutely. He moaned pleadingly, wanting that powerful throbbing member inside him. The blond smiled, planting an almost-innocent kiss on the sun priest’s forehead before moving Daemon’s arms to behind his back and tying them up again. The Heliade groaned in displeasure. He wanted access to his hands.

Satisfied that he was back in control, Kristoff pushed Daemon off of him, forcing the sun priest into a position where his chest and face were on the bed while his ass was in the air. The blond got into position behind the sun priest and moved the leather strip that had somehow found its way back in between the Heliade’s cheeks aside. He placed his cock on Daemon’s hole and demanded “Beg for it.”

“Please, Kristoff. Please…” moaned Daemon, breathlessly as he tried to buck his hips back to engulf the member that he could feel pulsating by his tender pucker. “Please fuck me…” The blond was not satisfied yet. He rubbed his cock up and down the crack, lubricating it for the inevitable penetration. “Please… fuck me like a bitch in heat.” Those were the words the Mage wanted to hear. The sun priest very nearly screamed from the burning pain and electric pleasure that flooded him when Kristoff rammed his rod deep into the waiting hole without any warning whatsoever.

Despite having cum not too long ago, weeks of denial, or at least being unable to spill his seed into anyone or spill his seed because of anyone else, the blond was ready to blow again. He could feel the seed churning in his nuts. The sound of skin slapping against skin as he roughly pistoned into Daemon resounded in the silent room. The sun priest underneath him writhed in pleasure, moaning and groaning almost in tandem with the blond’s thrusts. Kristoff was rubbing that place inside him with every movement of his sizable cock. His own member, pitiful and shriveled in its Cage, was leaking profusely.

Some remote corner of Daemon’s mind was twisting and turning at the thought of being dominated by someone from the Order, but it had long since been repressed. He was fully immersed in the sensations that the cock moving in and out of his ass had managed to give him. Kristoff, too, was grunting in pleasure with each movement in and out. The hungry walls of Daemon’s private channel seeming to grip and stroke his sensitive member with each inward stroke. For a few minutes they continued on in that manner, Kristoff pounding away and Daemon bucking with his motions to try and shove more of that rod inside him.

Mere minutes later, both men had devolved into two grunting mounds of flesh grinding against each other on the road to sweet sensual release. Kristoff’s thrusts were becoming uneven and more urgent. The same could be said of Daemon’s bucking. His cock, kept flaccid by the Cage, tingled with a familiar sensation. A few more thrusts later and the Heliade groaned, knees buckling as he felt his release being triggered. There was no relief with it. He watched as the pre-come dribbling out of the piss hole of his belt went from clear to milky white. He’d cum, but he felt as though he’d only pissed himself. He’d forgotten how frustrating it was to be fucked in his cage.

At the same time, Daemon’s ass contracted almost brutally, squeezing Kristoff’s cock in all the right places even as he thrust it in and out. As the cum from the sun priest’s nuts flowed out of him in a limp dribble, his ass milked the member in it for all it was worth. It was almost as though the warm slick walls of Daemon’s inner sanctum were undulating around the blond’s cock. With a guttural roar, Kristoff spewed his hot seed into his past lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Hope you enjoyed this week's chapter. Pretty big sex scene at the end there...
> 
> Also, we're about to get introduced to the wider world of Coldsnap. I'm sure you can guess who Blondie is. *winks*. In any case, this is all so much larger than Jack or Elian could imagine. I wanna hear your thoughts on the chapter!
> 
> On another note. Who's up for some JackxElian action next chapter? *raises hand*
> 
> Here's a preview for next week!
> 
> _A small crowd had gathered, and the three soldiers stood outside, huddling against each other for warmth as they had been booted out of their tent in only their shifts. Bran addressed the small crowd that had gathered, noting quite bitterly that Gwen was not amongst the waking, but nevertheless, he had other matters to worry about. “These three are at fault for piling all of their watches on their friend. Let this be a lesson to any other lazy sons of whores. You have a duties in this camp, and you either fulfill them or die avoiding them.” The commander shifted his burning gaze towards the three soldiers, making them shift in discomfort where they stood. “This will be your_ only _warning.”_


	17. Unrestrained Desire

Bran stomped into the tent that the soldier had pointed out, startling the three other soldiers within, dozing with little regard for their comrade’s well-being as he stood outside in the biting cold having taken over all three of their watch shifts, to wakefulness. His greaves had made a lot of noise, and even the crisp cold air could not dampen their heavy clanging as he forcefully strode within. He had no intention of giving them the dignity of being woken with a command. He wanted them to scamper to their feet while he glared at them with the most smoldering glare he could muster. Truth be told, Gwen would have been much more suited to the job, but she wasn’t nearly as empathetic to the plights of her men as Bran was.

When the three soldiers finally managed to stagger to their feet, taking a full two minutes to do so as they tried in vain to rub the sleep from their eyes, Bran cleared his throat. The three tried to stand to attention, unsteady on their feet, an accomplishment that, as one could imagine, was far more difficult than it seemed. “Why the fuck is one of my soldiers taking over for three watch shifts because his three ‘friends’ are fucking lazy sons of bitches?!” he demanded, voice stern and ringing in the night. He was beginning to hear the scrambling of other soldiers nearby as they were stirred into wakefulness by the commotion. The soldiers tried to come up with a reasonable answer, though they knew deep inside that there was no getting out of the matter, that they had been caught red-handed. “Get the fuck out” snarled the commander, pointing through the tent flap out into their encampment.

Outside, in the cold, a small crowd had gathered. The three soldiers stood just beyond the tent, huddling against each other for warmth as they had been booted out of their tent in only their shifts. Bran addressed the small crowd that had gathered, noting quite bitterly that Gwen was not amongst the waking, but nevertheless, he had other matters to worry about. Seeing to it that no such thing as this would happen again was far more pertinent than his disappointment. “These three are at fault for piling all of their watches on their friend. Let this be a lesson to any other lazy sons of whores. You have a duties in this camp, and you either fulfill them or die avoiding them.” The commander shifted his burning gaze towards the three soldiers, making them shift in discomfort where they stood. “This will be your only warning.”

“You.” Bran pointed at the soldier in the middle. “You will keep watch until dawn.” He shifted his finger to point at the one on the left. “You. You will stand outside his tent—” Bran pointed at the soldier he’d left moments ago who had put on such a convincing facade, a sheer expression of disdain and contempt characterized by the smirk in his lips that it actually gave the commander pause to consider whether he’d made a fatal error trusting the man. In the moment he spent in silence, he noticed that there was still genuine fear in the man’s eyes. Eyes never lied. He shivered, imperceptibly to those who did not know to look. He could only imagine what had haunted the man enough to cause perpetual terror to show in his eyes like a cloying sickness. “Until dawn. And you. You will come with me” he said, pointing to the last soldier that remained. One of them ducked past him to try and get something in the tent. With one fluid motion, he knocked the soldier to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting a cloak, sir” said the soldier as his two friends shook their heads nearby. Bran lifted his foot and kicked the soldier in the side as he tried to get up. “Agh!” screamed the soldier in pain, landing back on the ground in a puff of snow. He looked up at his commander, eyes teary and brimming with anger. Bran glared right back and set his foot on the soldier’s back as though to dare the man to challenge him again. The soldier sighed pursed his lips and clenched his fist, but knew that there was no besting the man that towered above him at the moment and resigned himself to laying on the ground. The best he could do was follow orders and hope that his punishment would not get any worse.

“I said nothing about a cloak” growled the commander as he took his greaves-encased foot off of the soldier’s back. With a grunt, the soldier pushed himself back to his feet and glared at his commanding officer, backing down almost instantly when he saw the glare directed back at him. “Now, get to it” snarled Bran under his breath, drawing a whimper from the soldier that both men were sure he’d not expected would come from him. Bran smiled, a threat of further violence if they so dared to do such a thing again apparent in the curl of his lips. The commander shoved the soldier off to where the watchman for the area was supposed to stand before turning to address the crowd. “Well, what are you fuckers still looking at? Get back to sleep.”

With a loud murmur followed by scuffling and shuffling of boots, the crowd slowly began to disperse back to their respective tents. Bran motioned for the other soldier to approach. The looks that the two remaining soldiers who were supposedly his ‘friends’ cast on him were both dirty, filled with anger, and yet, smug. The commander had a feeling that he knew exactly why those soldiers looked smug. They knew that there would be hell to pay for the soldier that Bran had saved if ever his tent-mate ever caught him. It could only mean that they, at least to a limited extent, knew what Gython was doing to the poor soldier. Bran would ensure that the unfortunate man, who was beginning to sway unsteadily on his feet, probably from lack of sleep, could not be hurt by the lumbering giant of the camp. At the moment, though, he had to discipline the two other soldiers.

The commander swung his arm over the soldier he’d saved. “You. Fuck off to where I ordered you. And you are not to let his tent-mate leave under any circumstances. Understand?” Distracted from glaring at the soldier around whose shoulders Bran’s arm was draped, the other man’s eyes widened. He was afraid that the commander suspected the abuse that was going on, but was not about to ask a question to make it plain as day. He knew Gython would have his throat if he did. Meekly, the soldier nodded and trod off to the watchman’s tent. Deep within him, though, there was some apprehension, and more than that, fear. If the watchman was not going to be at his tent, Gython was not going to be pleased. The soldier dreaded that he might suffer the same fate his comrade suffered at the hands of the hulking giant of a man.

As he tentatively stood in front of the tent flap, at attention, back rigid, as he knew the commander expected of him, he listened for any movement within the tent. There was none. He prayed to the gods, both old and new, despite the elders’ warnings that doing so would only anger the new ones. He prayed that nothing would happen to him until dawn. Then, then he might be safe from Gython. Warily, he watched as the commander dragged off the bitch and his other friend away. Out of sight of the second soldier, Bran confronted the third. By that time, the one that had been awake for most of the night because of the watch, was beginning to lose his grip again. “Tell me. You know what Gython did to him, don’t you?” he demanded.

The soldier paused for a moment, seemingly surprised by the question then began to slowly shake his head from side to side, trying to avoid Bran’s eyes. That was all the answer the commander needed, and the next thing the poor soldier knew, he was lying on the ground, massaging a sore jaw. Bran spat on the snow. The soldier was lucky that he had had the courtesy to remove his gauntlet before punching him right in the face. “I ought to execute you for being an accessory to the crime” said Bran grimly, cracking his knuckles. The commander shook the watchman by the shoulders. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but all it did was make him flinch in apprehension.

The soldier made a small sound as he staggered to his feet, dizzied by the blow. “Please, don’t. The two others… They were in on it, too” Bran shook his head. Idiots, all three of them. Selfish, too, beyond a doubt. They valued saving themselves over others. He couldn’t help but wonder how long this corruption had been breeding in his troop. “We were afraid of Gython. We didn’t want to be beaten to a bloody pulp.” The commander laughed bitterly. It seemed as though all the men were afraid of Gython. He had not remembered having such spineless cowards on his company when they had first set out. Nevertheless, it was true that the long journey had changed many of them. It was very rarely for the better, too.

“Then you will help make things right or I will beat you to a bloody pulp.” Bran smiled, not a shred of sympathy in the curl of his lips. No. Not for anyone that would put their friends, their comrades, their brothers, the people they shed blood on the battlefield with and for in harms way to save themselves. He shook the watchman again, with the best intentions, and unwound his arm from around the man’s shoulders before giving the man a gentle shove towards his own tent. Apprehensively, the man looked back twice as he stumbled towards the tent. “You stand guard out here and make sure no one disturbs us. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir” affirmed the soldier, looking around nervously. He suspected the commander was going to have his way with the bitch now, as a reward for ‘saving’ him, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before the gauntlet was thrown down and Gython challenged the established leadership. The camp was heading towards mutiny. He was now stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had no idea which side was the better one. If there was ever a time to regret ever being complacent with abuse amongst the ranks, it was now. He knew that if Gython, in his rage, stormed over to Bran’s tent, he would be powerless to stop the man. Perhaps the commander would have more luck, but he, mere mortal soldier that he was, stood no chance against the beastly strength of Gython. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to make his punishment any worse, so he stood up straight, standing guard outside the commander’s tent. Whatever happened within was none of his business, but his own suffering was.

The man standing outside Gython’s tent froze as he felt an arm wrap around his midriff. It was a massive arm, bulging with muscles and veins. He could feel the strength radiating from it. A small whimper escaped his lips. For having lived through tough times and many battles, nothing quite compared to the fear he felt at that moment. “Where’s Caedh?” A low animalistic growl followed the soldier’s silence. Then a second whimper as he was dragged into the tent. “My bitch is gone for the night… so you take his place” growled Gython, punctuating his words by tearing the soldier’s pants out. There was no one awake nearby to hear the muffled screams that followed soon after.

\---

Kristoff stared at the softly snoring body of the sun priest that was curled up against him. He’d already plied his Magecraft so that his absence would not be noticed in the convent. That act had done a number on him and his eyelids were fluttering on the verge of sleep, tired from both the impassioned lovemaking — though he doubted it could be called lovemaking anymore — and the magic he’d woven. Having Daemon snuggled into his chest, breathing softly, lulling him ever so slowly into dreaming, reminded him so much of their past together and how much he wished that they could have it back.

He scolded himself mentally. There was no use wishing for something that would no longer happen. The only way that they could ever go back to even a semblance of their old relationship was for their respective orders to give up the fighting and work together. It was a tall order. Not after what Mater did, and not after how the Order had responded in turn. Kristoff stroked the sun priest’s cheek and was rewarded with a pleased grunt. He tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind Daemon’s ear. This would be the last time they ever lay together. He would make sure of it.

For now, however, he was satisfied with just lying in bed with his once-lover. Perhaps in his dreams he would dream again of their passion in days long gone. Those nights when they were sure they kept up much of the Tower with their loud fucking. Kristoff felt his cock twitch and swell, coming to arousal again. There was no satisfying the hungry animal within him. He needed a lover with a sexual appetite as voracious as his. He could wait, though. The mission at hand was far more important than his own interests.

Nevertheless, as much as he might have wanted to leave at that moment, there was information he had pursued coitus with Daemon for. As much as he had loved fucking the sun priest’s tight little ass again, he had also done it for his mission. Come morning, he would extract what he needed from the Heliade. For the moment, though, there was not much he could do. Not with Daemon being asleep. He watched the sun priest’s lean frame rise and fall with his even breaths, marveling at how innocent the man could seem when he slumbered. Tentatively, he placed a single kiss on Daemon’s forehead before closing his eyes and trying his best to drift off into sleep until morning came.

*

When morning came, Kristoff awoke to an almost-alien feeling: another warm body beside him, curled up into him, even. The windows were closed, so very little light streamed in. What little that did was nowhere near their bed. The nearby hearth had long since died, ashes strewn inside it from the logs that it had consumed during the previous night after their lovemaking. He held Daemon into his arms. The sun priest was still fast asleep. Judging from the brightness of the light, the sun rose long ago. He had to wonder why the sun priest was still asleep. Perhaps Daemon had been more tired than he’d imagined.

Gently, he shook the Heliade awake. There was a momentary look of fear and confusion on Daemon’s face before he grasped the situation he’d found himself in. “What did they put in that ale?” he mused, sure that if he had not been so uninhibited the night before that nothing would have happened between himself and the admittedly gorgeous blond before him. Nonetheless, he had to deal with the situation now. Luckily for Kristoff, the sunlight could not reach him. Otherwise, the oaths he’d sworn to his Order would have to be obeyed. “Morning” he said groggily, trying to muster some levity as he attempted to untangle himself from Kristoff’s limbs.

“Morning” replied Kristoff, eyes never once leaving the Heliade. Finally Daemon managed to extricate himself from Kristoff, though not without a little eyeing of the blond Mage’s naked body. He himself was as nude as they day he’d been born, save for his Cage. Truth be told, it was all for the better, as the metal contraption shielded Kristoff from evidence of his arousal. Daemon sat up on the bed and looked around. He distinctly remembered having clothes torn off of him, but instead he saw his clothes whole and folded neatly by the foot of the bed. Magecraft. It was the only possible conclusion.

“As much as I’d love to stay…” They both simultaneously scoffed, knowing that the words were merely half-meant. “I cannot” said the sun priest, eyeing the sunlight nervously. If it so much as touched him, the binding magic of his oaths would trigger and he would have to try and fight Kristoff. At the moment, he knew he stood no chance against Magecraft. Perhaps when next they met, they could battle like they used to. “My brothers are likely looking for me.” Kristoff smiled, making Daemon shift uncomfortably where he sat.

“Wouldn’t worry too much about them” quipped the blond as Daemon picked up his breeches and turned around to put them on. Kristoff showed no shame in ogling that wonderful ass he’d fucked quite roughly only the night before as Daemon bent over to pull his breeches up. As the silk slid up the sun priest’s supple skin, Kristoff whistled, making the Heliade blush. What had the Mage done to him? An experienced general and an esteemed brother of the Heliades reduced to a blushing maiden.

Daemon grunted and pulled on his tunic before whirling around and locking eyes with Kristoff in order to tell the blond off and to remind him that no one could know of their little tryst. He knew it would damage the Mage’s reputation almost as much as his if members of either order found out about what they had done out of impulse. There were those, after all, that believed that even peaceful conversation between members of either order should be punishable by death. He realized his mistake too late, when he spotted a sizable lock of Kristoff’s golden hair shrivel and die. “Wha—”

*

Kristoff watched the sun priest’s back retreat from him and go through the door, vanishing from sight mere moments later. The blond was reclining on the bed, arms splayed to either side. He could feel the Coldsnap shard niggling in the back of his mind. It meant that the storm was near. He hoped against all hope that Jack had followed his advice and taken Elian and left. Even if ultimately, the goal of the Order was to bring together the Coldsnap and the Radiance, artefacts as old as time itself, they could not afford having Elian fall into the hands of the Heliades. That much would ensure that the shards would never meet each other.

The fortress-city of Lycc was going to war with Vamara, having spotted a chink in the kingdom’s defenses brought on by none other than its once-crown prince. His curse and his subsequent desertion of his father’s kingdom had thrown Vamara into a state of distress that it had not known since the collapse of the old empire. Where Lycc waged war, the Heliades followed. Kristoff knew that better than most. He could not let Elian find his way back to Vamara and risk him falling into the hands of the sun priests. At the moment, though, there was little he could do but wait for the fates to align and show him the way he must take.

Kristoff’s eyes fixed themselves to the door to the room. It was slightly ajar and still slowly swinging from when Daemon had pushed it open mere minutes ago. He sighed. He really wished that things had been different between the two of them. He wished that they could have been together. He wished that he had taken the chance and run away with Daemon back when it was still possible. Back when they had not been as involved in the war that raged between the orders. Now he was a high-ranking general of the Order, and Daemon was much the same for the Heliades. Their brief tryst, passionate though as it had been, was the last thing they would ever do of the sort. One needed not be a fateseer to know that.

It was with a heavy heart that he opened his mind to the cloying power that throbbed within him, the power to change the natural order, the power to violate the inviolable: chance. A patch of golden hair shriveled and died as he forced fate to bend to his whim around Daemon. The sun priest would not remember their coupling. In some ways he envied Daemon of it. He wanted to forget so he would not hurt. It was beginning to. Longing was a very painful thing. He drew a shuddering breath as he molded chance to make Daemon forget. How he wished he could do the same to himself.

He lay back, folding his arms on his chest, when he was done. He was left with a fairly large bald spot on the right side of his head. It would grow back. He had tinctures to help with that. He knew, though, that the lines on his face and his skin would not go away nearly as easily. His magecraft was beginning to take its toll, and soon enough, it would take all of him. He pulled his hat down over his head, covering the bald spot as he released a sigh.

He thought back to that fateful night, when Daemon had offered him a choice. Run away with him or lose him forever. It was the same hunger for knowledge that had forced him to make that second choice that prevented him from sacrificing his life to fulfill the directive of the Order. It was a decision that he’d beat himself up over for the next few years as he desperately tried to reach Daemon. Unfortunately, the new acolyte of the Heliades was too far out of his reach, and he could make no amends. Now that he’d said his goodbyes, even if the sun priest would never remember them, Kristoff knew what he had to do.

He had to fulfill what the Order had tasked him to do, and make sure that Elian would not fall into the hands of the Heliades. Once that was ensured, he would work gladly towards retrieving the shards of the Radiance from the hands of Mater and Daemon. Once that mission was done, and only when they reopened the Ginnunggagap to discover its secrets would he release his hold on life. Maybe his final act would be to move fate enough to bring himself and Daemon together for one last time. He didn’t know. He would cross that bridge when he got there. For the moment, he needed to gather his wits and his strength about him. Elian, and by extension, Jack Frost, would need his intervention if they hadn’t yet fled the coming storm.

*

Halfway down the stairs, Daemon felt light-headed and woozy. He was unsteady on his feet and he swayed from side to side as though he was about to keel over. His mind was rapidly clouded with a haze that his consciousness could not penetrate, and the malignant dread that was wrapped around his heart was being dulled by that same haze. He managed to mutter profanities at Kristoff before the haze overtook his conscious mind. With each step he took down the stairs of the tavern, the more his mind felt lost to him. Then, a moment of terrifying and absolute uncertainty. How he managed to find himself at the steps of the convent when he came to, he could not recall.

The last thing he remembered was talking to Kristoff and leaving. His last memories were of early evening. Craning his neck up at the sky, he noted that it was fairly late in the day. What had happened? As much as he tried to remember, he could not. Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet and strode into the convent. He would have to figure it out another day, when he had had some rest.

\---

The light of the moon was shining brightly down upon the two young men standing in shoulder-deep water by the side of the pond, locked in tender embrace with each other. Her pale blessing was raining down upon them, an unspoken encouragement, an unvoiced request that they give in to the tide of emotions in their hearts and allow themselves to just be with each other. Much as the patron goddess desired her two children to surrender to their budding love for each other, she was powerless to say anything, or do anything for that matter.

Elian just stared at Jack, mouth working wordlessly for a moment as he tried to process the admission that had just been made. It was not something he’d ever expected to hear in his life, and one that he’d already prepared himself to never hear at all. If anything was a testament to his life taking a turn for the better since meeting the farmboy, it was this. Elian caressed the side of the platinum’s cheek, a tear rolling down his own cheek and glimmering in the pale light of the moon. He moved in closer to Jack, breathing heavy with a level of need he’d not expected of himself, and placed his lips upon the farmboy’s.

This kiss was very much unlike the chaste kiss they had shared at the beginning, when Jack was calming the raging torrent of fear that had engulfed Elian’s essence. No. This kiss was more primal. More animalistic. More… vulnerable. Jack’s eyes widened in surprise when he first felt those soft, tender lips against his own, but they soon became hooded as he gave in to the sensation. For a moment, their lips were held in what seemed to be an eternity of uncertain limbo. Then, slowly, insistently, Elian pressed his tongue against Jack’s lips, asking ever so politely, in a way reminiscent of his long-lost court manners, for entry.

When the blond took it upon himself to take charge of their passionate discourse, Jack was all too glad to melt against him and allow him to do as he would instead. Somehow, deep inside, the platinum knew instinctively that Elian needed this. For some reason, a small voice inside of him cooed to him, reassured him that his surrender of control was perfectly fine, that it would probably help to cure the rift within the blond that his rape at the hands of those evil men had caused. The same voice warned him that it may hurt, but that he needed to persist through the pain, for Elian.

Strangely, the farmboy found himself more than comfortable handing the reins to the blond who seemed to be far more… experienced in the matter than himself. Truth be told, though, the only reason Elian knew anything was because of Vard all those years ago. A lot had happened on the way back to Vamara, and Elian had lost his purity on that road. Nevertheless, Jack couldn’t help the groan that was ripped from his throat when he felt the warm slippery muscle of the blond’s tongue slip into his mouth.

Elian’s tongue prodded and explored his mouth, tracing his teeth in a manner that Jack did not think would be as sensual as it was. Jack’s own tongue, driven by instinct, slid up Elian’s and their tongues danced around each other in a lustful, sensuous dance that sent the slightest waves of pleasure rippling from the farmboy’s mouth down his body and up his rigid cock. He shivered, hands roaming up the blond’s back almost as though of their own accord. Elian arched into Jack’s torso, the farmboy’s tentative fingers leaving burning trails on his skin on their way up. The blond groaned, and the farmboy’s fingers found their way into the exiled prince’s hair, his slightly calloused digits tangling through the soft golden locks in a wordless but meaningful gesture of affection.

Elian’s hands went the opposite way, tenderly massaging the skin and flesh of Jack’s lower back as they traveled down, making the farmboy press his hips against the blond’s. Their cocks ground against each other and both young men moaned into each other’s mouth, unable to help the involuntary sounds of pleasure that they were managing to bring forth from one another. Jack whimpered when Elian’s hands found their way to his asscheeks and began to knead them in earnest. He’d never been touched there, never in that manner, at least, and it brought him far more arousal than he had ever expected. He leaned into Elian, almost knocking over the slightly smaller blond into the water.

Before any wet mishaps could happen, Elian pulled away from Jack, both to take a breath and to take a good long look at the farmboy that had managed to steal his heart in such a short period of time. “Oh Jack…” he whispered as he pulled the farmboy back towards the shore. Yes. His hands were still quite comfortably clutching the supple globes of Jack’s derriere. He liked the feeling and liked the flush that it put on Jack’s face, so he wasn’t about to let go. The platinum’s eyes were still wet with unshed tears, but they were shining with a sort-of hopeful happiness. Elian smiled, and the farmboy’s face lit up.

It took a little while, but they managed to free themselves from the water. Glaise paid them little attention, all too happy to paddle happily around the pond, occasionally barking at the moonflies that got too close for his comfort. Whenever he did, the two young men would look at him then back at each other before sharing a chuckle as though it were some inside joke between the two of them. Both their members were still fully hard, and, in truth, Elian thought his was painfully hard. As much as it was amazing, feeling his cock against another man’s skin, particularly one that had captured his heart, this was one of the times Elian had to ask why nature had thought it fit to give young virile men to have erections of such magnitude and duration.

The blond led the platinum back to where Jack had laid out a blanket for the two of them to recline on as they ate and told stories about each other earlier. Once there, Elian also grabbed Jack about the waist, spun him around so that his back was to the blanket, and then kissed him again. The moan that Jack made into his mouth was titillating and he felt even more empowered than when they had been in the water. Gently, he pushed Jack down into the blanket before clambering on top of him only to start kissing him senseless again. Why he was suddenly so bold, he could not tell, but there was a part deep inside of him that egged him on, that told him that this, allowing himself to give himself to Jack was something that he needed.

Judging by how hard the manhood that was poking his thigh was, Elian was fairly certain that Jack wanted it, if not needed it, just as much. He pulled away for a moment, fixing the farmboy underneath him with a meaningful gaze. He wiped away the tear tracks that had made themselves evident on the farmboy’s cheeks with his thumb and kissed him on the cheek. “I think…” Elian breathed deeply and sighed, not quite believing what he was about to say. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you too, Jack…” he said, the words spilling before he could make himself nervous enough to take them back.

Jack reached up and found his fingers tangled in the blond’s golden hair once more. He placed a quick kiss on Elian’s lips before drawing back, eyes shiny with joyful tears this time. There was an indelible smile on his face, one that the blond was sure he was mirroring on his own. Jack shook his head as though in disbelief before taking his hand and caressing the blond from by his ear down his jaw. “Elian…” he groaned. “Thank you.”

The blond nuzzled the platinum’s neck as his hands roamed over the farmboy’s well-defined torso. “No, Jack…” he began, moving his hands down and tracing the fine musculature of Jack’s abdomen. “Thank you…” he whispered, suckling on the skin of Jack’s neck and eliciting a throaty moan from the platinum. Elian was not the heaviest, not by far, but he wasn’t the lightest either, and his weight on top of Jack prevented the farmboy from writhing in pleasure at the blond’s ministrations as much as he wanted to. Instead he was left grinding his hips and cock against Elian’s, making the blond’s breathing grow heavier and heavier with need as they moved against each other in a dance that seemed so natural to them. They moved in a way that would not betray that both of them were relatively inexperienced in the art of lovemaking.

“Elian…” Jack groaned as the blond started to suck on his left nipple and toy with his right. He gasped when he felt the blond’s hands wrap around his nuts and massage them. “Elian…” he repeated with more urgency, bucking his hips when Elian ceased the stimulation on his nuts and instead grabbed his shaft and began stroking it languidly up and down. “Elian… I want you… inside me” he said, groaning from the mind-numbing pleasure that was radiating from his member. He’d often grabbed it in his own hands and pulled it until he spilled his seed, but even that slow, rough buildup of pleasure could not compare to the bliss that having his cock in another man’s hand gave him.

He continued thrusting his hips into the blond’s curled fingers in an absentminded determination for release. Elian had frozen where he was, the words that Jack had spoke tumbling in his head. He tried to make sense of them, but was at a momentary loss. He  had always been the one on the receiving end of the fucking, and truth be told, he didn’t know if he could do it. He was afraid he would not be able to pleasure Jack in that manner as well. It was Jack’s keening cry as Elian felt the cock in his hand pulse that brought him back to the present. It had taken all of the farmboy’s will to not cum then and there, but he did not know how much longer he could hold on.

“Please” pleaded Jack with a hoarse voice. He was panting, and now, the wet sheen on his skin seemed to be more like sweat than it was pondwater. “Please” he repeated, trembling underneath Elian. The sheer need in the farmboy’s voice took the uncertainty, anxiety and fear that was inhibiting the blond and threw it clean out of the clearing. Jack shivered at the low growl that his begging managed to elicit from Elian. He couldn’t help but moan when the blond resumed his attack on Jack’s nipples. He arched his back as Elian went lower, suckling on the flesh of his abdomen. His cock, however, was pitifully neglected. The blond did not want him to blow his load just yet.

Elian reached up with a hand and tapped his fingers on Jack’s lips. The farmboy grunted, confused, but the blond continued to rub his fingers on the platinum’s lips. It took a moment, but in understanding, the farmboy opened his mouth and began to suckle on the fingers. Elian moaned, the sensation of Jack’s lips and tongue on his fingers marking an erogenous spot that he’d not thought he had in the beginning. Satisfied that his fingers were sufficiently slicked, he moved back up and kissed Jack while at the same time using his weight to press the farmboy’s legs apart. Jack thought it obscene how his legs were spread out underneath Elian, but both the passionate kiss and the sensation of one finger slipping inside him and wriggling around were more than enough to drive any thoughts of inadequacy out of his mind.

He moaned into Elian’s mouth and curled his toes when he felt that finger curl up inside him, stretching him out and getting him used to being invaded in his most private channel. The farmboy gasped when a second finger entered him. A slight burning pain radiated from his pucker, unaccustomed to the invasion. He’d fingered himself on occasion when he masturbated, but never with two, and never quite as deep as Elian was doing. He groaned as Elian scissored his fingers open and closed, loosening him and making the burning and pressure lessen as he did. Then Elian did something that made his mind go numb. The blond curled his fingers and grazed a spot within him that he’d not thought existed.

Jack’s eyes flew open. They had been forced closed by the sensations assaulting him as well as him relishing the feeling of Elian’s lips on his own. He screamed into the blond’s kiss, back arching off of the blanket, toes curling in a manner that threatened to make his feet cramp. Elian pulled away, a smirk playing on his lips as he brushed his fingers against that spot again, making Jack’s mouth hang open in absolute bliss and his cock throb in painful pleasure as it spewed a glob of pre-come. When the pleasure subsided, Jack stared at the blond on top of him with eyes wide. “What was that…?” he asked, panting from the exertion. His spread legs were beginning to ache, but in a good way. “Please… Don’t stop” he begged Elian. The words had been barely out of his mouth when the button was pressed again and he whimpered from the sensation.

A third finger managed to find its way inside the farmboy and he hissed in discomfort. He was already stretched beyond what he was used to, but Elian did not want to cause Jack any pain when he took him. He moved his fingers closed and apart, training the muscle of Jack’s rosebud to stretch around them. The burning pain quickly dissipated and Elian went back to teasing that spot inside of the farmboy that made him just writhe in utter pleasure. Higher up his body, almost as far away from the farmboy’s nether regions as possible, Elian was nibbling on the lobe of his ear, eliciting soft whimpers from Jack. He had not known that that spot could be so sensuous. He was discovering so many things about himself, and all of them were amazing.

A fourth finger made Jack whine in discomfort, but Elian whispered and cooed to him, making him relax into what the blond was doing. The ache in his legs was beginning to become more noticeable, but it was still pleasant. Glaise was sitting nearby, watching the two with his head tilted to the side, probably confused about what they were doing. Noticing his faithful hound nearby watching him, Jack couldn’t help the deepening of the pink on his cheeks. He’d unabashedly watched his parents in intimacy, but for some reason, he was feeling more than a little shy in front of Glaise who had probably seen him naked an uncountable number of times. Nevertheless, Elian’s fingers grazing his prostate drove Glaise out of his thoughts and made him, for the first time since Elian started fingering him, buck his hips to drive the fingers deeper.

“Elian…” The blond drew back and looked the farmboy in the eye. There was a wild, wanton expression in the farmboy’s icy blue eyes. Elian’s reflected the look, but there was a predatory gleam in his own, put there by the shard of the Coldsnap within him, the Primal magic of which enhanced his basic instincts and gave him the ability to make Jack respond in the way that he was. “Please…” begged Jack, breathily. His chest rose and fell heavily with want. Instinctively, he wriggled his ass and clenched his hole around Elian’s fingers, emphasizing exactly what it was that he was begging for.

“Please what?” asked Elian, a smile dancing on his lips. He knew the teasing would drive Jack crazy with want. It had taken all of his self control to not just ram his cock into the hole that he knew was well prepared for him. A beast had been awakened within him, and the Elian that was self-conscious and self-deprecating had been driven away by an Elian that was functioning on what he felt and that alone. He moved his head so close to Jack that their noses were up against each other. Jack’s eyes were hooded with pleasure and Elian could almost feel the heat radiating from the other man’s body.

“Fuck me” demanded Jack, pulling Elian’s head down and locking lips with the blond. The farmboy’s lips ground against the blond’s with a desperation that further inflamed the beast that was waiting to pounce within Elian. The blond used his hand to stroke the farmboy’s abdomen and found that there was a pool of pre-come there, made from the mingling of both his and Jack’s pre-come. He took a glob of it and smeared it all over his cock. He lined his member up with Jack’s hole and thrust his throbbing manhood into the waiting channel at the same time he thrust his tongue into Jack’s mouth.

In unison, the two young men cried out in pleasure, Jack from the feeling of the blunt cockhead grazing his prostate, and Elian from the slick warmth of the farmboy’s hole. For a brief moment, both young men stopped their movements and locked eyes for what seemed to be an eternity. Then Elian moved, drawing his cock out of the velvety warmth and then thrusting it back in. Jack’s back arched off of the blanket as he cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, though much more the latter, and a glob of pre-come dribbled out of his throbbing cock. Out. Then In. The farmboy’s toes curled and his legs stiffened. There was less pain. More pleasure. His mouth hung open in bliss.

Elian adjusted himself, moving back to get a better position from where to thrust into Jack’s hole. Then he thrust in. Out. In. Out. It was a maddeningly slow pace, to Jack, whose cock was weeping despite not being touched the entire time. He was so aroused. The farmboy began to buck his hips in tandem with the motions of the blond, driving the member deeper inside him with every thrust, but it was not enough. “Harder” Jack croaked. Elian was all too glad to comply. The moonlight around them dimmed almost imperceptibly, but it did.

“Harder!” he demanded a second time. Elian rammed his rod deep into Jack. The farmboy cried out in ecstasy, veins set alight by the feeling of Elian burying his cock inside his virginal ass. The blond was his first, and it could not have been better. “Harder!” he continued to press, not noticing that his mouth had not moved as he screamed the command. Elian did not notice that he’d heard the demand in his mind either. There was a more dangerous look coming over his face, but Jack, lost in the world of the sensations coming from his ass that was being roughly thrust into and out, did not notice. The moonlight dimmed even more.

“Harder!” screamed Jack mentally, again, and something inside Elian snapped. He acquiesced and used all his might to ram his cock up Jack’s ass as hard as he could. A broken whimper escaped the farmboy’s lips. That one had hurt. “Elian…?” He groaned. The blond was not looking at his face, rather the blond seemed fixated on Jack’s hard cock bobbing up and down and his own cock sliding in and out of the farmboy with increasing savageness. “Elian!” cried out the farmboy as he was met with another painful thrust. He’d stopped bucking his hips. It had only made matters worse. He was beginning to tremble.

An angry red haze had descended on the exiled prince’s mind. In his moment of vulnerability, when pleasure had compromised the walls he’d built in his mind, memories of all the times he’d been taken against his will flooded back, the most recent one most vivid of them all. Jack whimpered as the rough fucking continued. Pain lancing through his body with each thrust. There was still pleasure, of course, but in his anger, Elian had begun to miss Jack’s prostate. Tears welled up and fell from Jack’s eyes and Glaise began to bark. “Elian… Stop…” Jack begged. The blond’s hands that had been clutching his hips were beginning to dig in.

“Elian!” Jack whimpered. The blond was lost in a world all his own, one filled with anger and hate. The love he’d been operating on mere moments ago replaced by a bitter want for vengeance that he’d always buried and refused to acknowledge. Jack was not Jack to Elian’s confused mind. He was Reg. He was all the men that had fucked him against his will through the years, and this was his time to take his revenge on them. Show them how he had felt. Make them suffer how he’d suffered. Unfortunately for him, it was the man he had fallen in love with that he was fucking. “Elian!” screamed Jack as the blond continued to fuck him harder and harder with a growing sadism mirrored by the terrifying smile that the farmboy was fortunately shielded from by the blond’s hair that had fallen in the way.

The darkness that had taken root in Elian’s heart was purging itself through this symbolic, but ultimately cathartic act of vengeance that had left Jack a whimpering mess. That being said, however, he was not any less aroused and despite the rough and downright violent pounding he was receiving from the blond, his cock remained hard, throbbing, and flopped up and down in time to the blond’s angry thrusting. Jack was scared. And confused. Why was Elian hurting him? It was his fear that clouded his heart from feeling what the shard of the Coldsnap within him was telling him.

However, when Jack felt a strange, almost-tickling sensation on his stomach, the fear was given pause. He screamed in pleasure and very nearly rose off of the blanket when for once, the savage pistoning of Elian’s cock rammed it right into his prostate. As soon as he returned from that height of titillation, he felt it. Water dripping on his abdomen. Elian was crying. He tried to reach out to touch the blond and reassure him that everything was going to be alright, but he found his arms weighed down like lead. He had not realized his body had been sapping his strength in order to shield him from most of the pain that Elian was surely causing him.

The thrusting sped up, making the obscene squelching sound of Elian’s cock getting roughly rammed in and out of Jack’s hole fill the clearing. The blond was absolutely silent, but his body was entirely tense. The only indication that Jack got of the blond’s emotional state was the tears that flowed freely down his face, dripping onto his stomach. “Elian…” he whispered, the Coldsnap finally getting through to him. He surrendered himself to the need for vengeance that Elian needed, and before long, the thrusting slowed down and Elian keened before he felt his ass being filled with the blond’s seed.

The blond slumped forward, and for the first time, Jack felt the rift in his heart begin to grow smaller and smaller until ultimately it was but a scar. Whatever it was that had just happened, it had helped Elian rid himself of the darkness within him. Was it worth the price? The young prince would soon find out. Trembling and sobbing, he pulled out of Jack. Almost as soon as he did, his cum and blood rushed out of the abused orifice. The metallic scent of the blood filled the clearing and sent Glaise into a frenzy of barking and snapped Elian right out of his reverie.

He looked at Jack with abject horror. The farmboy was lying there in a daze, but he just barely managed to raise his eyes to lock gazes with Elian. The blond saw hurt and understanding, but was still confused. The last few minutes had all been a blur to him. The memories felt like ashes in the wind. He tried to grasp them, but the harder he did, the more they seemed to elude him. He traced his eyes down Jack’s body, past his chest, down his abdomen, down to his still-hard cock, and saw the marks of where his fingers had dug into the young man’s hips.

Elian gasped and scrambled backwards as he hesitantly continued his gaze down to the farmboy’s ass and his cock. His member was smeared with cum and blood, and both fluids were dripping from Jack’s puffy hole. He could see Jack trembling, he could see tear tracks where the platinum had cried. Then, it all came rushing back to him. Jack demanding him to fuck him harder had triggered something inside him. Something that, while it was cathartic and allowed him to heal the wound in his heart, sent him into a murderous rage that culminated in what he saw before him now: Jack was hurt. Because of him.

He rose and backed away slowly, not even minding that he was stark naked. Glaise bounded towards Jack and started licking his master’s face comfortingly, whining as he did so. Elian’s mouth worked wordlessly in an apology he could not bring himself to say. He doubted he could voice anything, at that point. He turned and ran away from Jack, almost tripping before plunging into the treeline. Weakly, Jack raised his hand and tried to call for the blond but his voice was cracked and too weak for Elian to hear. “Glaise…” Jack said. The hound nuzzled his neck and began to glow in the light of the moon. Jack felt some strength returning to him. “Glaise. Find him” he pleaded, desperation in his voice. He didn’t want to lose the man he loved. No. He couldn’t afford it.

“Please” he begged Glaise and the hound sat back on its haunches and regarded him with a steely look. “Go!” he commanded, mustering as much authority as he could using what little strength Glaise had returned to him. With a whine and a bark, as though to promise his master that he would not fail, the Frosthound bounded off in the direction that Elian had taken off into. Jack felt weak, though marginally better than when Glaise had not given him any strength. Gingerly, he touched his hole. He found his fingers smeared with blood and seed. He threw his head back and sighed before forcing himself to all fours. He crawled towards the pond.

After what seemed to be an eternity, he managed to immerse himself in the water. There, he cleaned himself, watching the water turn creamy crimson as he did. The moonlight shone brighter at that moment, as though responding to his presence. He felt some strength flow into him, but it was still not nearly enough to make him feel better. Nevertheless, he persevered. He dragged himself back to shore and took after Glaise and Elian. He had to find Elian. He had to tell the blond it was okay.

He had to tell his love that he understood. Because that’s what it meant to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter! It was a really fun one to write.
> 
> I told you I wasn't going to forget that Elian very likely still has some PTSD from being raped, multiple times, even, in the past. What did you think of his sudden breakdown? The catharsis that harmed Jack? Also. I'd like feedback on how the sex scene transitioned from something sweet and romantic to something horrifying. Was the transition smooth? Was it visceral?
> 
> I'd really like to know!
> 
> As always, here's a preview of next week's chapter!
> 
> _Jack staggered through the trees, following the sound of Glaise’s howling. He was weak, and the only way he seemed to be able to get from one place to another was by pushing himself off from tree to tree and allowing his fall to propel himself to the next. Minutes passed fruitlessly. Then. He found them. Glaise’s white coat glimmered in the moon. The nearby trees were coated with frost and he could see intermittent bolts of frost lightning arcing through the air. He stumbled forwards. He saw Elian. Then he fell to the forest floor. Spent._


	18. A Debt Repaid

It had taken him a lifetime to find the same love he’d seen in his fathers when they had been together, he was not about to let it elude his grasp now that he’d found it. He wasn’t prepared to let it slip his fingers for the mere reason that to heal the heart of the one he loved most, he needed to be hurt in gods know how many ways. A small part of him was truly afraid of Elian now, and he knew that would never change, not now that he’d seen what the young man had been able to do in anger, in pursuit of vengeance, in catharsis of darkness. Nevertheless, he loved Elian with all his heart. Why? He did not know. All he knew was that in their short weeks together, he’d learned more about love than he’d ever learned watching his fathers together in theirs for all the years of his life.

Jack was not going to let Elian go. Not this way, losing him into the very same woods that the had found him. Not now. It was ironic, really, that they were now threatened with separation by quite similar circumstances. One of them bleeding and weak. The other terrified out of their minds by a strange eldritch event that he’d just witnessed. Only, this time, it was Jack that was bleeding, and it was Elian running from him. The farmboy could not possibly let the young prince run away for good with him believing he’d hurt the man he loved the most in cold blood. Their love was stained enough with fear and self-loathing, passed down to them by the hateful world around them and their heritage. It did not need any more sullying.

What manner of vengeful gods had they crossed? What manner of irreconcilable sin had they committed to deserve the misfortune that had befallen their young lives? It didn’t seem to Jack that it was all just a matter of coincidence, or Elian’s past catching up to him. It seemed to him that all their woes were because of some divine intervention by a wrathful deity, or a group of them. He laughed bitterly as he sagged against a nearby tree-trunk, legs nearly giving way underneath him. It didn’t matter how much strength Glaise had lent him, it wasn’t nearly enough, but he needed to persevere and find Elian. The fates be damned, he needed to find his love and tell him what he’d always told the blond. That he was wrong. That he was being dumb. That he needed to stop blaming himself and that he needed to start opening his heart to others.

It was a leap of faith he knew that the blond would probably not want to take. He could hardly blame Elian. After all he’d been through, after all _they_ had been through, he believed that trust was something that was in short supply for the blond. Jack raised his watery eyes, and his tear-streaked cheeks to the sky, despairing but determined. With all the strength of his mind he screamed at gods of his fathers and the new gods of this land, the only land he’d ever known. Why? He demanded. Why? Why was the love that he had for Elian so powerful yet so difficult?

The farmboy braced himself against the tree-trunk and pushed himself off. Using his weight and his subsequent fall he staggered to the next tree, frost blooming under his touch. He needed to find Elian. He _needed_ to. Again he raised his eyes to the gods of his youth, both old and new. His cheeks were freshly wet with the tears he’d only just shed. In his despair as he stumbled from this one tree to the next, he found the answer to the question he’d so forcefully demanded from the deities that watched over all mankind. Their love was difficult by its very nature. After all, a prince in self-exile was still a prince, and Jack was but a lowly farmboy.

They were from two different worlds, and, if anything, the crossing of worlds was a difficult endeavour all on its own. Jack let out a shuddering sigh, pushing his way from the tree he was currently leaning against to the next. Despite all his internalizing, he needed to keep moving. In the distance he could hear the sound of Glaise’s urgent barking. He was hurt, he was weary, he was terrified, but where Glaise was, Elian was as well. He had to keep moving. Their love was difficult because it was trial that would temper it, that would prove it true, if it was. He could only hope it would survive. He made his way to the next tree, losing his balance as he did and sliding down it, the rough bark scratching him up and leaving shallow woulds in his arm and shoulder.

He hissed in pain, shifting so that his back was against the tree. He groaned. This was harder than he thought. Between the weakness in his legs and the pain in his poor backside, things were proving quite difficult. Nevertheless, if there was anything he’d learned in the weeks he’d been with Elian, it was that perseverance often had its reward. He shifted again and braced himself against the tree, practically throwing himself towards the next. Then the next. Then the next. Behind him he left growing fractals of frost spider-webbed with cracks that wove themselves together without rhyme or reason on the rough bark of the trees that he had to brace himself against.

On and on he went with nothing but the ache in his chest, the pain searing his body, the howling of his hound and the light of the ever-present moon to guide him. From one tree to the next. He continued his pilgrimage. It was an act of devotion worthy of legend, what he did, but it was taking its toll. Then he heard it. Glaise. Loud and clear as though the loyal hound was right by his side, the barking cutting through the night air. He knew he’d found them. He knew he’d found his love. He smiled as he pushed himself off of the tree he was hugging. The relief that flooded him was short-lived. He missed his mark, and he fell to the forest floor with a soft thump that silenced Glaise for a minute.

Not caring what was sticking to his naked body, not minding the stabbing pain that radiated from the reminder of their lovemaking, Jack tried to press on, clawing at the loose earth in front of him, trying to find purchase to crawl towards where he knew the young prince he loved was. There was no denying it anymore, no more maybes, no more buts. He _loved_ Elian. He sobbed, the sound broken and desolate as his fingers found themselves clutching just another clump of dirt and leaves. “Elian…” he whispered. “Elian…” Then his strength deserted him in his hour of greatest need. It wasn’t the first time he’d been deserted when he needed it most that day. Hopefully it would be the last. Weakly, he raised his hand, reached out, and with the last of his strength shot a bolt of frost lightning that he hoped would alert Glaise to where he was.

It was mere moments later, to the crackle of the lightning dissipating, that his head hit the ground with a muffled thump. Then the world turned black.

\---

Bran lifted the tent flap just barely above his head and walked into his fairly sizeable quarters. He was, after all, commander, and though he initially insisted against it, both the general and the kings alike demanded that he deserved a marginally more accommodating space. Compared to most other tents in the camp, it was far cozier. Had been, at least. He’d long since abandoned any notion of finding comfort in the place. For all its breathing room, it felt almost as constricting as the small tent he’d found the three soldiers in. The canvas was patched up in multiple places, sown together taut in others. If anything, what little accommodations they had in the camp served as a reminder of the hardships they’d endured over the years.

The commander sighed, stripping away his remaining gauntlet — the other was already off — and threw it nonchalantly to the side. The squires would see to it the tent was in pristine condition come the next time they made camp. They were so close to the end of their journey, or at least, they were, according to Gwen’s gut feeling, and things were finally beginning to fall apart. He needed to think about how he would deal with Gython. For all his abuse, he _was_ one of the more important members of their little contingent. Bran had to decide, however, whether or not it was worth saving one man from suffering to keep the giant or to end the giant’s life to prevent any further abuse. Whatever choice he made, it would be a difficult one with repercussions that none of them could predict.

Bran sighed and sat on the floor just by the tent flap, looking up for the first time and noticing the watchman that was frozen where he stood in front of the commander. He was stripped down to his breeches, and seemed to be in the process of pulling the ties to them apart. His pale skin seemed even paler in the cold. The moonlight that filtered through the canvas made him seem white as the driven snow. He was staring at Bran with wide, fear-filled eyes, but his hands were slowly working the rough linen of his breeches down his frame. Perhaps in another time, the commander may have appreciated the rugged good looks of the man and his lean musculature, but he was still in grieving for his lost friends. They were more than that, he mused, but exactly what they were, Bran could not tell. He was afraid that even if he did know, he would refuse to acknowledge the fact.

“Bran” said the commander, extending an arm in what he hoped would be a gesture of good faith. The soldier looked at his open hand warily and shrank away, still not stopping the stripping. He was afraid. Bran knew beyond a doubt that the soldier before him had not lied, that he’d been used and abused, and stripped clean of his manhood and dignity. The commander knew that it was more than reason enough to be wary of anyone showing him kindness, as he was sure Gython had feigned to show the poor watchman before taking advantage. “What are you doing?” he asked, genuinely curious as to why the other man was getting naked in the bitter cold.

“Caedh, sir” said the man, slipping off his breeches to reveal the rest of his pale skin to the commander. He turned away, ashamed of himself, and cupping his groin. He at least had the good graces to blush and be shy about his nudity, but Bran was still puzzled by the need to get naked in the first place. “Getting ready to try and sleep, sir…” Caedh admitted. Bran shook his head, still confused about the nudity. He was entirely baffled. The watchman stammered and, in a moment of vulnerability and modesty, grabbed a nearby blanket and held it over his naked form. “I-I c-can’t sleep c-clothed anymore…”

The poor watchman trembled as he sank to his knees, feeling broken beyond a shadow of a doubt. Whatever it was that he had before he left on this journey, he could never go back to it. He couldn’t imagine facing his wife, much less spending one night with her, what with what Gython had done to him. It was too much. The shame too great. He broke down and wept into the blanket, sagging sideways as he did. “He did this to you?” asked Bran, rising and taking off what little was left of his armor and undressing to what he always slept in: his shift. The disconsolate soldier, in his grief and humiliation did not hear his commander addressing him with a question. The plain streak of anger that was in Bran’s voice was lost to him. “Did he do this to you?” asked Bran a second time, firmer, more demanding as he knelt by the watchman.

Caedh nodded, making a broken sound as he acknowledged what he’d become, what he’d been forced to do over and over, each night without exception, each night without mercy, the last little while, for a man twice his size and more than strong enough to kill him with his bare hands. He should have fought, chosen the honourable death: one attained by fighting for his dignity, his humanity, his hopes and dreams, his family. Instead he’d been a coward and allowed the larger man to beat him into submission with mere words. Now, he’d lost all but the slightest shred of hope. He raised his eyes and looked at his commander. His heart skipped a beat. “Please…” he begged Bran, grovelling on his knees and letting the blanket that was covering his naked frame fall away. “Please… _kill me_.”

The commander’s eyes grew wide as Caedh continued to beg for the sweet mercy of death, for the sweet release at life’s end, for the fare that would allow him to ride the barge to the Westerlands. He couldn’t. Not in good conscience. He believed that Caedh, as broken a man as he was, could still be put back together again. He knew, though, that whatever the giant of their small troop had done to him would take a long, arduous time to undo. There was no denying the fact, he mused, as he watched the pitiful man grovel beneath him, that Gython had permanently burned some things into his mind. If there was one thing Bran was known for, though, it was that he was not the kind to leave behind his men. That meant that whatever rubble was left from when Gython tore down the man that was once Caedh, he would salvage it.

“No” he said simply, eliciting a tortured moan from the watchman as he folded over himself and continued to weep inconsolably. He shook and he shuddered, and he drew gasping breaths as Bran watched, plotting what he could do to not only fix this one man, but also tear down the beast that was in their camp. He would spare no mercy for the creature that did this. It was one thing to kill another man by the sword. It was another to destroy them so utterly, but leave them alive to suffer. “I will help you. I will fix you” said Bran, grabbing Caedh by the shoulders and raising him up to look the watchman in the eye. “I will give you your vengeance”

Caedh shook his head “I-I-I don’t w-want v-vengeance…” stammered the soldier, unable to look Bran in the eye. The commander bristled, his instincts screaming at him to call the man a coward. “I want… _peace_ ” Caedh said with a sigh to punctuate his words. He was tired, and he was not even a shade of the man he once was. He could hardly even call himself a man. Dignity, courage, nobility… All that had left him the moment he became Gython’s obedient lapdog. His meek bitch. His to use whenever and wherever he liked. Consequences be damned. “So please… have mercy… _kill me._ ”

“No” said Bran, conflicted but resolute in this endeavour to make things right for Caedh. “No. That is no mercy. That is cruelty” he squeezed the watchman’s shoulders. “I will give you peace, if it is what you want. But the price of that peace is blood. Not yours. I’m sure enough of it has already been spilled by the giant’s sword” He was a coward. Not a man. He couldn’t even demand to be killed well enough. Caedh nodded meekly, accepting his commander’s words, though perhaps not necessarily believing them with all his heart. “Now sleep. We will deal with the giant come tomorrow.”

Caedh lay down on the cold, hard floor, unwilling to take his commander’s bed. Unable, in truth. He knew he would find no rest there, no slumber. Gython had always denied him any sort of comfort. Not even the thin pads that most of the men in the camp slept upon. His mattress was the snow. That had been his life for the past while. He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he’d become Gython’s play-toy. He closed his eyes, but quickly found that he could not summon even the shallowest sleep. There was something missing. Something that Gython had made his slumber dependent upon.

“Bran…” he said, daring, for a moment, to use his commander’s name in the privacy of his commander’s tent. Bran looked at him with a quizzical expression, almost as though to ask what he was still doing awake when he’d been given an order to rest and find sleep. “ _Fuck me_ ” he whispered as softly as he could. Nevertheless, the words seemed to echo and become as loud as thunder in the confines of the tent. Bran shook his head sadly and returned to his brooding. Caedh sobbed. A part of him wished that he was back with Gython. It would not have been so hard. The brute would have just done as he always did, without question or consideration of the watchman. At least there, he would not have been so humiliated, he would not have been forced to beg to get fucked just to fall asleep. “ _Fuck me_ … I _need_ it.”

Bran looked at his new charge, eyes wide with surprise and soft with pity, but also stained with a smattering of disgust. What had Gython made this shell of a man before him? As though to drive home the point, Caedh rolled onto his stomach and propped his ass up by his knees while keeping his chest flat on the ground. He presented Bran with his hole, an orifice that the commander, despite his infatuation with his partner-in-command, was more than familiar with. Bran shook his head, noticing that the man was shaking with need, with desire. The gleam in the watchman’s eyes told him that whatever arousal Caedh was feeling, he did not want it. It was something that Gython had forced onto him.

Nevertheless, the watchman’s cock was hard and dripping, and his hole was waiting for Bran to take it as roughly as the giant often would. This was the only way Caedh knew how to sleep now. With a well-fucked, well-bred, leaking pucker. Bran hesitated for a moment. He was already half-hard from the obscene display, but he wondered whether giving in to the temptation would make him just as bad as Gython. The pleading look in Caedh’s eyes told him otherwise. The watchman _did_ need this. He shook his head before kneeling behind the man and untying his breeches.

He spat into his hand, meaning to slick his stiff member and ease its passing into Caedh’s channel, but the man said “No. No need. Fuck me as rough as you can…” The watchman’s voice broke as he gave Bran instructions. Bran was not aware, but as much as he had wanted to help Caedh, it seemed as though he had done the unthinkable. He’d completed the watchman’s breaking. Here he was, offering himself up to another, more superior man, all because he believed he needed it. It was just as bad as accepting what he was: a bitch. That night. For the first time. Caedh didn’t scream when the turgid stiffness, the hard cock was rammed into his waiting channel.

He _whimpered_.

\---

There was one thing that Elian learned the hard way, after running away from Jack. It was the fact that if Tristan and his ragtag group of miscreants, _rapists_ , even, had had the foresight to bring a dog with them, Elian would never have found Jack. He would never have fallen in love. He never would have been able to put his foot down and stop running away. He never would have taken the first step on the path towards his redemption. How did he learn this single, immutable, indubitable fact? He had not managed to run very far from the clearing and the pond and the poor, bleeding farmboy when all of a sudden he found himself careening into the ground, a noticeably furry weight heavy on his back. They’d both skidded to a halt just short of a tree, but Elian was understandably a little banged up from the incident. Nothing important was damaged, he knew that, but his nuts felt a little sore, and his limp, but still-sensitive cock was giving him some grief, for being dragged along the less-than-friendly forest floor.

It was terror, ironically, that had given him the courage to look upon what he had done to Jack and run away from that problem as he had always done with all of his problems before meeting the farmboy. The metallic tang of Jack’s blood that was still clinging to his member filled the air, to the blond’s nose. It reminded him of the horror of what he’d wrought. It had begun as something so sweet, and tender, almost to the point of cloying, but he hadn’t minded back then. It was nice, for once, to be able to feel that elusive emotion of love, the one he’d thought he had long since forgotten. It was _exhilarating_ , feeling his heart thump in his chest, and his stomach flutter, whenever Jack looked him in the eyes or kissed him. It was absolute ecstasy when the farmboy had submitted himself to Elian sexually, the ultimate act of lending trust, particularly for the blond who had been used and abused against his will so many times in his past.

There was nothing he could say, or think to himself that would make him feel any better about what he had just done. Beyond the pain he’d caused Jack by giving in to the sickening vengeance that was wrapped against his heart, the pernicious anger that had been breeding within him ever since he’d been raped, and Jack had been put in harm’s way as well, the growing darkness that threatened to overwhelm him, he’d run away. He had run away from the suffering he’d caused just as he always did. When he’d hurt Andrew, he ran away. When he’d brought about the death of Vard, of that woman, he’d run away. He always fled the scene of whatever crimes he’d committed, far too afraid for his life, and far too afraid to face the consequences that they brought. He had abandoned Jack. That, in and of itself, beyond the pain he’d caused, beyond the suffering he’d forced on the farmboy, was painful.

Elian sobbed, a pained, broken sound escaping his lips as his tears continued to fall, calling up curling frost from wherever they landed. He was a coward. A _monster_. Jack had been wrong about him. Despite the love that they had managed to foster between the two of them, stronger still than even the love he’d had for his younger brother, it had not managed to stop him from causing Jack pain. That made him a _monster_. If anything was going to shake the farmboy’s seemingly unwavering faith in him, it would be this twisted, _evil_ thing he’d done. He had allowed his fantasy of fucking the men that had done the same to him into submission, fucking them into respecting him, fucking them so that they knew the physical and mental pain that he had experienced at their hands. He had never thought he would do so to Jack. He shook, the guilt seeming to cause him physical pain.

He started, almost jumping, when he felt soft fur brush against his neck, and a cold tongue licking away the tears that had been streaming down his cheeks. He sighed, the feeling causing him a little comfort, when Glaise whined and nuzzled his neck. There was one thing that Jack had taught Elian in their short time together: that he no longer needed to run away from his problems, from his past, from the ghosts that haunted him. He had his ice. He could defend himself. Nevertheless, it was so much easier to keep running, to never recognize that there were people important to him that he had hurt beyond repair. Jack was another name to add to that list, but for the first time, there was a part of him, a part awakened by the farmboy’s earnest love, that told him that running would only make matters worse.

Elian’s sobbing subsided, but his trembling did not. He was afraid — terrified, even — of going back and talking to Jack. He was sure the farmboy probably hated him now for what he did. The platinum had saved him, though, not only from dying when they’d first met, but from himself, in all his self-destructive episodes. He owed Jack as much as an apology at the very least. However, even that, seemed to bear the weight of a mountain, when he thought upon it. Again, as always, running away would simply be the easier path to take. The choice was taken away from him almost instantly, however, as he heard a rustle in the woods, followed by a muffled thump and the distinctive crackle of frost lightning. Glaise whined and nudged Elian’s head with his muzzle. Something was wrong. Elian flipped over onto his back when the hound leaped off of him and bounded in the direction of the thump that they had heard.

That was Jack, for sure. If Glaise was on him, it followed that Jack was not far behind. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he considered running away into the darkness of the woods, now that Glaise was busy with his master. Elian could not, however, in good conscience, run away anymore. Not from this. Not from the man who had so sincerely given his heart to the young prince. Not from the man to whom he’d given his heart, that part of him that he’d thought no one would ever want to take anymore. Jack was special. Jack… He _loved_ Jack, and though he wanted to just do what he had always done and flee from the other man, he could not bear the thought of abandoning him. His heart was holding him back. Trembling in apprehension from what may face him when he finally talked to the farmboy, he rose to his feet and followed the sound of Glaise barking.

As he walked towards the hound, the apprehension in his heart turned to concern, then to panic. He had not seen much of what he had done to Jack, but the image he’d seen when he returned to himself was something that would permanently be burned into his mind. Jack was drawing laboured breaths. His face was pale from the exertion of fighting the pain. His eyes were squeezed shut. Tears were running down his cheeks. Despite that, his cock was still obscenely swollen, the pre-come pooled on his abdomen. Then. Then the terrible, terrible sight. The profane squelching as he pulled out of the farmboy. The sweet musk of Jack’s insides and Elian’s cum… Then the sharp tangy scent of blood. He remembered seeing his cock covered in both seed and blood. It was a terrifying sight.

Elian had to brace himself against a nearby tree when he finally saw Glaise, barking frantically beside Jack, who was face-down in the dirt, breathing so slowly it almost seemed as though he was not breathing at all. The hound noticed him, and instantly stopped his barking, instead starting to whine and lick Jack’s face and hair worriedly. “Jack…” Elian whispered. The farmboy was unresponsive. “Jack… Please…” He continued as he knelt beside the platinum, cupping Jack’s cheek in his hand. The farmboy was really cold. Elian shook his head, tears falling fresh from his eyes as he stroked the nape of Jack’s neck. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he apologized, hoping against hope that his lover would stir. No such thing happened.

Summoning all his strength, Elian hefted Jack’s arm over his shoulder and dragged the other young man up. Glaise barked and moved to support Jack with his side as well. “Alright, Glaise… We have to bring him back to camp” he said, voice still trembling but turned strong by concern and determination to see to it that Jack would be alright. He took one step forward, catching the majority of Jack’s weight against himself. Glaise moved in tandem with him. Then they took another step forward. Then another. They would get Jack back to the clearing, and Elian would make sure that he would undo what damage he’d managed to do. Jack had saved him once. Now it was his turn to repay the debt.

###

It took them a while to make it back to the clearing and the pond. For once, it seemed as though there was a benevolent god or goddess looking out for them, as the moonlight had become bright enough to see well by on their long journey back to where they had set camp for the night. Along the way, Elian had seen trees covered almost entirely by frost, and he could only assume that in his weakness, Jack could only throw himself from tree to tree in order to move forward. It definitely seemed that way, but he might have been wrong. He wasn’t the best at tracking, after all, and, in a moment of unexpected and definitely unwelcome levity, he noted that he was fortunate that the people who’d chased him had not been either. When they finally made it through the treeline and back to the clearing, the moonlight seemed to shine even brighter. Their campfire had died down, and the rush of activity that had once filled the clearing with such life, vigour and unearthly beauty: the night-birds singing, the moonflies fluttering, the wind making the blue maids sway in the night, was similarly deadened.

The nigh-absolute silence of the clearing was unnerving, but at the same time, a reminder that not all was well with the world, especially Elian’s little corner of it. Jack’s legs had trails of cum and blood running down them. The sharp tangy scent only helped reinforce the notion that the farmboy was very much unwell. Elian shook his head, trying to gather his wits about him as he set Jack down on the blanket and went out momentarily into the woods to get more fuel for the fire. Jack had been wise enough to bring some straw in the basket to start a fire so that he would not need to spend too much time looking for kindling, but nevertheless, kindling alone did not make a fire. Glaise whined as Elian started to walk back towards the treeline, looking morosely at him and then back at Jack. “I’ll be back…” Elian reassured the hound.

Glaise cocked his head sideways at Elian before barking and returning to licking Jack’s face worriedly. In as much as the blond was in love with the hound’s master, Glaise had been Jack’s companion for far longer than Elian. He could only imagine the dog’s distress at the farmboy’s condition. Elian sighed before walking back into the trees. He returned, no more than a handful of minutes later, with a handful of branches and a somewhat clearer mind. Part of him still raged at his recklessness, demanding how he could’ve done something so horrible as to allow his anger to take over him, especially since it had meant taking his anger out on Jack. Especially at a moment as important as the very first time that they consummated what they claimed was love between the two of them. He was doing his best to silence that voice in his mind. It was not helping him. It could not help him. Not now, while he was busy trying to make sure that his beloved farmboy would be just fine despite the damage he’d inflicted.

Elian walked over to the basket, grabbed a handful of straw, tossed it into the firepit and then piled the wood back on top of it. If there was anything he was doing wrong, he didn’t exactly know. He was not very well versed in matters of survival out in the wild. He’d been raised a prince, after all, and most of his time outside the palace had been spent running. Campfires, when he’d finally learned how to make what really amounted to a mediocre one, had turned out to be quite dangerous when one was running away from something. He could count the number of times he’d nearly been caught because he’d started a fire. One. He had never tried again since.

Elian found the flint and steel after a little fumbling, but he couldn’t, for the life of him strike the two properly. His hands were trembling too much for that. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, looking once at Jack to remind him why he was doing this and why it was so important. He struck the flint and steel, a spark flying out and landing right on the kindling that then began to crackle and smoke. He smiled, proud at what he’d managed to accomplish. He tended to the fire for a short while, blowing into it when it faltered, trying to make sure that it would grow to a healthy size and create a healthy amount of heat.

Ever since he’d been with Jack, the hunger of his ice for heat had been the least of his concerns. Somehow just being in close proximity to the farmboy sated that ravenous coldness within him just enough to maintain his powers but at the same time keep them in check. With the platinum as incapacitated as he was, though, that luxury seemed to be no longer his. Slowly, he weaned some of the heat from the fire into his hands. He would need the energy to take care of Jack. Satisfied that he’d had enough and that he had waited for the longest possible time he could before taking action, he strode over to where Glaise was still worriedly tending to his master in the only way he knew how.

Elian tried to remember what Jack had first done when he had been ill, only to realize that he had been mostly incoherent at the time. The memory of that time was hazy and unclear at best. He frowned, instead trying to remember what Jack had done to treat his wounded feet. A small, pleased smile broke out on his face as he remembered. He hefted one of the farmboy’s arms over his shoulder again and with Glaise’s help, got Jack on his feet. With the hound by his side, he slowly walked the farmboy to the edge of the water, stopping with a hiss as he tried to fight back the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Jack had shown him that there was nothing to be afraid of in the water. Nothing that would kill him, nothing that would cause any more pain.

He breathed deeply before stepping into the pond with Jack. Once they were deep enough, Glaise paddled back to shore as Elian was better able to support Jack against himself. This was the first thing Jack had done while treating Elian’s wounds. He cleaned them. Elian first tended to himself, cleaning his flaccid member of the cum and congealed blood that had dried on it. He could no longer bear their weight, constantly reminding him of what he’d done. Next, he sat Jack down and started to rub the unconscious young man’s thighs clean of the cum and blood there. He paused, wondering if he should clean Jack’s insides as well. He decided against it, not knowing what was in the water. If anything, it might only make things worse.

Instead, he rubbed his fingers slowly around Jack’s pucker, cleaning away the mess there as well. Satisfied with what he’d been able to do for the farmboy so far, Elian dragged Jack out of the water. As before, Glaise helped him move the farmboy around. He sat on the blanket, cradling Jack in his arms, as he looked up at the sky, hoping against hope that some merciful god might hear his plea and allow him to weave the same healing that Jack had claimed he’d used on the blond. Elian reached deep into the core of his being, drawing out the ice that resided there. It was different from the ice that he used on a regular basis. It seemed almost alien to him. It was chaotic and savage, yes, but it also held a primal beauty within it. He tried to even out his breathing and he began to draw more heat from the fire.

Making sure that the more destructive parts of the ice’s power were kept back from what he was doing, Elian poured his whole heart, his despair, his guilt, his anger, his thirst for vengeance, his self-loathing, his love, his entire will, into doing what needed to be done for the farmboy that lay limp in his arms. The blond raised one hand. The light of the moon began to shine even brighter, almost seeming to dance around his upraised arm. Beautiful curls of frost, shimmering in the pale light, wrapped around his hand as he brought it down gently onto Jack’s chest. The young prince flinched when magic erupted from where he had touched Jack. A pale light similar to that of the moon radiated from his hand, and the moonlight itself shone as bright as morning, pulsing and dancing to the rhythmic beats of both his and the farmboy’s hearts. From where his fingers touched Jack’s bare flesh, ice began to spiderweb across the skin, creating a thin, fractal veneer, that were it not for the grim purpose it served of undoing the damage that Elian’s wrath had done, would have been breathtakingly beautiful.

Unlike his ice on a normal, unremarkable day, this ice was astounding in its elegance. Where his ice, had it been spread into a sheet as thin as what was covering Jack’s body now, would have cracked with every laboured breath that the farmboy took, this ice warped and followed the contours of his flesh and musculature. As the frost spun its intricate lattice over Jack’s pale skin, almost ethereal in the bright moonlight, the ice began to glow and… _thrum_ with power. Elian could somehow _feel_ the damage repairing, and it went a long way towards calming the tempest raging in the back of his mind. At least he’d done something to right his wrong. At least, in this manner, he’d found a modicum of redemption. For the first time in his life, he’d not run away from a problem, he’d faced one.

All of a sudden, the unnatural brightness of the moon’s light vanished. Darkness kept at the edges of the clearing mere moments before its sudden departure washed back over Elian, Glaise, Jack, the pond, and the countless critters that inhabited it. At that same moment, the glowing frost around the farmboy cracked and fell away, showering the blanket with infinitesimally small crystals of frost that were then carried away by the slight draft that blew into the clearing. Jack’s breathing had become more even. It actually seemed more rested than before. The pallor that had been on his face moments ago was no longer there. Elian laughed in bitter relief, resting his forehead against Jack’s and whispering, again and again, his apologies to the young man for allowing his anger and the desire for vengeance to get the better of him.

Elian’s eyes were closed, but he could feel warmth suddenly start to flow into his arm and through his body again from Jack. He felt a weak tap against his cheek, and heard a soft chuckle follow it soon after. “It’s alright…” croaked the farmboy, eyes still shut from fatigue. “You needed it…” he continued weakly, voice cracking despite his efforts to put more strength into his words. “Don’t be dumb, Elian…” he said, tapping the blond’s face again before his hand fell limp by his side, and soft snoring filled the stunned young prince’s ears. He laughed bitterly. It was just like Jack to forgive him for whatever he’d done, and do so with such levity, it was almost unbelievable. He hadn’t yet forgiven himself entirely. He was fairly confident he never would. Nevertheless, there was a huge part of him that was relieved that Jack did not hate him after what he’d done after all.

The young prince yawned. He’d not realized just how tired he was after healing the farmboy. He was simply so dedicated and determined to undo the evil he’d wrought that he’d paid little, if any, attention to himself. Nevertheless, everything was alright. He could let go of himself. He could allow himself to feel tired. With the last of his strength, Elian moved Jack down onto the blanket before lying down himself and wrapping his arms and legs around the farmboy. He didn’t want to let go. Not after what he’d done. Not to mention, feeling Jack’s bare skin against his own was a good feeling. He felt warm. He felt loved.

Nevertheless, at the same time, he couldn’t entirely fend off the feeling of absolute wretchedness that was clawing at the edges of his consciousness, demanding purchase in his waking mind. It was a feeling of cloying disgust at himself for having had the audacity to do such a horrible, endangering thing to the person that allowed him to feel warm and loved. Before the night’s incidents, he had been sincerely considering staying at the farmboy’s farmstead, leading a mundane, but otherwise happy life free from the ghosts of his past and the niggling guilt that haunted him. Now that he’d revealed to himself that there was an anger and a desire for vengeance, a corrupting darkness lurking within him, hidden just beneath the surface, fueled by the years of pain that others had caused him, his resolve was stronger than ever.

He needed to leave Jack behind. He needed to leave the farmstead behind. Despite all the protest in the part of his heart that was protected from the darkness by his love for the farmboy, the mere fact that there was a darkness in there at all steeled his courage, made his decision seem right. There was one thing that was different now, however. After all, not everything could remain the same now that they had both professed at the very least, a budding love for the other. When they had first discussed Elian’s desire to leave, Jack had asked him to promise one thing. That he would come back, if he could. Silently, and calling upon the gods to be his witnesses, he amended his vow.

He _would_ return to Jack. No matter what. But first, he needed to find his redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It doesn't have as much going on in it as the other chapters. I thought you guys might want the break from all the action. It all resumes in the next, though!
> 
> This chapter was filled with a lot of rumination from Jack and Elian and Bran. It's mostly just setting up for what's coming next. Sad to say, but romance/good things are going to reach a crest next chapter, and just start getting worse from there on out. I'd like to hear what you think of what went on in this chapter!
> 
> I'd just like to remind everyone that if you have questions for me, you can drop me an ask on my tumblr! [[Malkuthe Highwind]](http://malkuthe-highwind.tumblr.com)
> 
> Anyway. Here's your preview for next week's chapter!
> 
> _They locked gazes. Elian, especially, was searching for truth in the farmboy’s eyes. He found the truth that he sought, but above all, he found love, sympathy, and an unwavering belief in him. “Thank you…” he breathed at Jack, surprised and filled with gratitude that the farmboy had been willing to allow himself to experience pain just to allow Elian to heal the wound in his soul. He hadn’t realized it the night before, what with the guilt and terror that dominated his thoughts at the time, but he felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders._


	19. Toppling a Giant

Abandoned by the brighter-than-natural light of the moon for both rumination and rest, Elian had quickly followed Jack into the realm of dreams, still wrapped protectively around the farmboy’s body. The early morning saw the farmboy waking up and finding himself in a tangle of his own limbs and Elian’s. It was a predicament he gladly stayed in for a little while, just watching the golden-white hair of his lover… He could call Elian that now, right? He asked himself. He supposed since they had ‘consummated’ their relationship the previous night, as brutal as the results had been, they very much qualified as lovers. In any case, he watched the young prince with a fond but at the same time sheepish smile gracing his face. The way Elian’s eyes seemed to slightly flutter with each exhalation was downright endearing. For all he’d been through, the self-exiled prince appeared to still have an inexplicable innocence about him. Genuinely happy for one of the few times in his life, Jack placed a chaste kiss on the blond’s forehead before he cupped Elian’s cheek tenderly.

He lay there for a few minutes, just watching the bleak gray of the pre-dawn sky turn progressively brighter as the sunbeams from the still-invisible sun began to spread and wash over the land. Considering the quite terrifying turn of events that had followed his and Elian’s lovemaking the previous night, that the next day was of such grandeur as it very often was in the land around Jack’s farmstead was simultaneously unnerving and comforting. When the first of the day’s warmth washed over the farmboy, he fumbled around, as carefully as he could, to untangle himself from Elian. There was one thing he could think of to do to reassure Elian that nothing had changed between them, that he still believed he’d fallen in love with the young prince, that no matter the pain he’d caused Jack mere hours past, that the farmboy still believed in the goodness in his heart.

Jack had felt it the cleft of his ass when he had first woken up. He’d actually stroked it with his ass cheeks, drawing a soft moan from the fast-asleep Elian. There was a hardness poking him, very similar to his own. Jack had not gotten any release the previous night, but then again, he was in too much pain and weariness to care by the time that Elian had restored the damage he’d caused. Before he took care of himself, though, he supposed he would be a good lover and extend a gesture of peace and trust to Elian before he worked for his own release. Making sure that the blond was still fast-asleep, the farmboy smiled wryly and moved down Elian’s body, coming to a halt when his face was level with the blond’s cock.

He’d seen his parents do it, but he was more than a little apprehensive about the act. Tentatively, he nuzzled the throbbing member in front of his face and started to lick it, slowly, and tenderly, and with a lot of anxiety as to whether or not he was doing the right or pleasurable thing. The soft moans and groans that he heard, however, emboldened him, and his licking became more aggressive. Where he was once just sticking his tongue out and taking a quick taste of the treat, he was now dragging his tongue along the soft, supple, sensitive skin of Elian’s cock. Still asleep, the blond was bucking his hips ever so slightly into Jack’s ministrations, a reaction that further empowered Jack’s resolve to bring his lover to fruition.

The farmboy remembered the delirious pleasure of rubbing his cockhead whenever he had the time to masturbate. He glanced at the throbbing member in front of his face and opened his mouth to suckle the head that was now weeping pre-come. He hesitated, for a moment, allowing his warm breath to waft over the sensitive glans. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and, for a moment, fearing that Elian was already beginning to stir, froze. When he saw that the blond’s eyes were still shut, he grinned and wrapped his lips around the life-giving organ. The warm wetness of his mouth made Elian’s eyes flutter open, in both surprise and a sudden rush of pleasure.

When he’d fallen asleep the previous night, the young prince had been thinking about what he needed to say to Jack to gain his forgiveness. He was formulating the words that he would say come morning, when the two of them could talk. He wanted to explain himself, but he knew that they both knew the reason why he’d gone off-kilter the first time they had made love to each other. He wanted to apologize, as sincerely and genuinely as possible. He also wanted to tell Jack in no uncertain terms that he was now going to leave to pursue his redemption so that no such thing would happen again. The last thing he expected to do, and truthfully, the last thing that had even remotely been in his mind, when he woke up was try and restrain himself from ramming his member down Jack’s gullet. All that rumination the previous night, all the thought and effort he had put into a litany of apologies that he felt he needed to make to the farmboy, was thrown right out of the window. He _tried_ to say all of it, but he was just babbling, unable to prevent the moans and groans that punctuated his words.

It seemed as though his lover — yes, Jack was his lover now, he mused with a twinge of genuine happiness — had other plans, having already forgiven him the previous night in his normal, humorous, bafflingly affable way. Elian had to admire the fact that despite being in pain and being evidently bone-weary, the farmboy was still able to maintain a healthy sense and level of levity in his life. Having Jack slap him weakly and tell him not to be dumb the previous night had eased part of his conscience, had reassured him that at least, things hadn’t changed dramatically. In any case, most of his coherent thoughts were driven clean out of his mind when Jack started to swirl his tongue around the cockhead nestled in his mouth. Elian keened in pleasure, throwing back his head because of the assault of sensations. If there was anything that would ensure the rest of him that the farmboy had forgiven him entirely, well, it would have to be the fact that his cock was, at the moment, pleasantly nestled in the platinum’s eager mouth.

“J-Jack…” groaned Elian, feeling a tingling in his stomach that was traveling down to his crotch. Whatever it was that the farmboy was doing, it was giving him one of the most pleasurable experiences he’d ever had in his short life. He gasped, back arching off of the blanket when Jack decided to go one step further and started to move his head up and down the thick, turgid shaft of Elian’s manhood. The young prince was a bit despondent — in a good way — mumbling absolute gibberish as Jack continued his relentless stimulation of Elian’s member. He hitched his breath when he felt as though he was about to cum. Just then, Jack, feeling the cock swell in his mouth, stopped whatever he was doing and reared back. He didn’t quite want the fun to be over just yet. He looked at Elian with a mock-angelic expression as he wiped away the dribble of saliva mingled with pre-come from his chin with his hand. “W-what are y-you doing?” mumbled Elian, finally able to piece together an intelligible thought.

For once in his lecherous mission, the farmboy had the decency to blush because of what he’d done. “Showing you I forgive you…” said Jack, more than a bit shyly. He wasn’t sure Elian would take it the same way as he’d hoped, but he believed that since it was sex that had caused the entire fiasco the previous night, opening himself up to more coitus would be enough of a gesture of forgiveness for the blond to understand. He was admittedly still a little sore, the ice magic he was sure Elian wove for him the previous night did very little to take away the dull pain of having his virginity taken away. He hoped it would not come to anal sex again, but was more than willing to open himself up to Elian that way again, if it was what it took to demonstrate that he still trusted the young prince.

“Y-you don’t h-have to…” panted Elian, not noticing that he was subconsciously bucking his hips into the empty air to try and rub his slick, manhood against _something_ to bring his pleasure to a head. The young prince was himself flushed, but more from the stimulation and arousal than shame at what was happening. “I-I’m so sorry… Jack…” he said, sincerity and guilt bubbling up from the pit of his stomach and bursting forth in his words. He began trembling, but Jack very quickly grabbed his hips and licked the shaft of his member up and down to still his self-pity.

“I told you… I forgive you…” said Jack slowly before returning to what he was doing before he stopped. In one deft motion — he’d learned a little from the sucking he’d been doing previously — he swallowed the head and half of Elian’s shaft, making the blond groan and wriggle his hips to gain better purchase to thrust into the farmboy’s mouth. He wanted to be entirely passive, to let Jack do with him as he would, but he couldn’t help the instinct to buck. Jack showed no intentions of slowing down or letting Elian go. In a matter of seconds, the blond was again reduced to an incoherent blob of jelly, back arched off the ground, toes curling in pleasure, nuts drawn towards his body in preparation for release, and mumbling a string of barely-intelligible words in his mother tongue.

Feeling bold, Jack looked up at Elian, only to see the blond with his head thrown back, and eyes squeezed shut in concentration, trying to make the experience last as long as possible. He smiled even as his lips slid up and down the throbbing column of flesh that he was making obscene slurping sounds around. Whenever he drew his lips up to surround just the head, he swirled his tongue around. Elian’s continued keening whenever he did so only made him desire to continue longer. He released the cock from his mouth, drawing a half-relieved, half-frustrated groan from the blond, only to dive back in by assaulting the sensitive glans with his tongue. He gladly slurped up the salty sweetness of Elian’s pre-come. It was a flavour he’d quickly learned to love. Having the other man at his mercy, writhing from his ministrations, seemed only a fitting revenge for what had happened the previous night.

The farmboy understood that Elian had needed to pound him into submission and, truthfully, eventually into unconsciousness, so that the darkness in his heart would be let go. However, that understanding did not change the fact that whatever had happened had hurt like a bitch, and he wanted to get Elian back for it. This was his way of doing so. Driving the blond crazy with pleasure. “Jack…” mumbled the blond, thrusting his member towards Jack’s face, hitting his nose and filling him with the scent of Elian’s musk. “Jack…” said the young prince again. “ _Please…_ ” he begged, his hands clutching the blanket as though hanging on for dear life. The farmboy only smiled and continued his licking of the delightful treat in front of him.

Intermittently, Jack would stop and use Elian’s stiffness to smear his face with his own spit and pre-cum. The idea seemed so hot and set him on fire even if he wasn’t touching his own cock, which, he was sure, was leaking in much the same way Elian’s was. With a wink and a lecherous grin, Jack started to take the member into his mouth again, but at a maddeningly slow pace. In between constant pleas of “Jack…” the farmboy was sure Elian was muttering a litany of curses in his mother tongue. The platinum was pleasantly surprised when he managed to find his nose buried in the blond’s sparse bush, the entire cock engulfed by his greedy gullet down to the root. “Jack!” yelled Elian, as he started to move his head up and down, deep-throating the member. “I-I-I’m going to…” Elian arched so much off of the blanket, his shoulders lifted up off of the ground. “Cum!” he screamed.

Feeling the hardness in his mouth swell yet again, Jack swallowed it down to the root once more. Elian gasped, mouth hanging open in delirious pleasure, as his manhood began to spew its seed. Rich, thick cum spurted down the back of Jack’s throat, making him gag for a brief moment. When the sensation had passed, though, the farmboy greedily lapped up the seed, sending all of it down his throat. It was an exquisite flavour, and, while it felt obscene sliding down his gullet, he also felt a sense of accomplishment for bringing his lover’s pleasure to a head. His orgasm done, Elian lowered himself back down onto the blanket, panting. Satisfied with what he’d done, Jack leaned back and grinned at Elian, the farmboy’s chin drenched in a mixture of cum, pre-cum and drool. It was obscene, but at the same time, oddly endearing. Elian couldn’t help but smile. Then he noticed that Jack’s own stiffness was unattended between his legs. “Jack… What about you?”

The farmboy looked down at the thick piece of meat that only just then began to demand attention from him, as though in surprise. His sack was also drawn into his body. The tip was weeping from its slit. Jack wrapped his hand around his shaft and hissed in pleasure. The contact was enough to send pure bliss shooting through his groin. He slowly started to stroke, leaving Elian mesmerized in the smooth, rhythmic motion. Jack’s moans and whimpers of need made the beast inside of the blond rear its head yet again and he pushed himself up onto his elbows to gain a better view of the farmboy stroking himself to fulfillment. The stroking didn’t seem enough for the other young man, because soon enough, he was spreading his legs and fingering his still-puffy hole as he slowly stroked his engorged member. Elian shook his head from side to side, wiping away the reverie that held him locked in place.

“H-how about…” he began to say, hoping to get a response from Jack. The farmboy was too busy with his own pleasure to pay any attention to Elian at the moment. Jack’s platinum hair hung down his back as his head was thrown back in pleasure, mouth slightly open from the sensations assaulting him. “I-I t-take care of you… as an apology…” continued the blond, still shy despite knowing that the farmboy was probably not listening. He blushed, but he shrugged, deciding to take matters into his own hands. As he went in for Jack’s stiffness, hoping to reciprocate what had been given to him, Jack seemed to mutter something. It was unintelligible, so the young prince continued with what he was intending to do.

The blond moved his face towards Jack’s crotch, but before he could swat away the hand that was stroking the other man’s turgid cock, Jack screamed “C-c-cumming!” Elian’s eyes widened in alarm, but before he could move himself back, his face was being plastered in hot strings of young, virile farmboy cum. He wasn’t about to complain, but the ejaculation had been unexpected. The warm essence dripped down his face and into his partly-ajar mouth, allowing him to revel in the sweet taste of Jack’s seed. It was tasty. He found himself licking whatever he could reach on his face for it. He looked up at Jack, who was looking down at him with a surprised but amused expression. Before the farmboy could say anything, however, Elian was cleaning Jack’s stiffness with his tongue.

The two young men, vigorous as they were, found that their members weren’t quite done with them yet. Both Jack and Elian were still, to an extent, painfully hard, but before anything further could happen, Jack pulled the blond back up to face him. With a smile, he wiped off the seed from Elian’s face with his fingers, mumbling an apology before sneaking a taste of his own essence. Once they were mostly clean, Jack looked his lover in the eye. There was fear, as always, in Elian’s bright blue eyes. Fear, uncertainty, and self-loathing to a degree. He cupped Elian’s cheek with his hand and rubbed the blond’s cheekbone slowly with his thumb. “It’s alright, Elian…” he said, as he felt the first tear fall from Elian’s eyes. The blond opened his mouth to protest, but Jack placed a finger on the blond’s lips. “I… I don’t know if you’ll believe me… But there was a voice inside of me last night that told me to let it happen… That told me everything would be alright…” Jack shook his head. “I don’t know, but I believed it… And it didn’t let me down…”

Jack smiled, sincerity plain on his face. “The same voice told me that you _needed_ whatever it was that happened…” Elian’s eyes widened in surprise. He thought Jack was simply being understanding, without considering the reasons why it all happened. “It’s alright… Because it was for you, Elian” continued the farmboy, placing his forehead against the blond’s. With his free hand, Jack wrapped his fingers around Elian’s right hand and brought it up against his chest. “Can you feel it?” asked Jack in response to the puzzlement that was palpable in the blond’s eyes. Jack closed his eyes and motioned for Elian to do the same. “Look. The rift in your heart… It’s gone…” The image of his heart in his mind’s eye surprised Elian so much that he audibly gasped, seeing it for the first time. He shivered. Had Jack seen that rift all this time?

The farmboy felt more tears roll down Elian’s cheeks after the revelation that there was a deep wound in his soul, broken open by the brutal violation he’d experienced not too long ago. No wonder Jack had seemed more protective and concerned of him in the past weeks. Jack cupped Elian’s chin just as the blond’s eyes fluttered open. They locked gazes. Elian, especially, was searching for truth in the farmboy’s eyes. He found the truth that he sought, but above all, he found love, sympathy, and an unwavering belief in him. “Thank you…” he breathed at Jack, surprised and filled with gratitude that the farmboy had been willing to allow himself to experience pain just to allow Elian to heal the wound in his soul. He hadn’t realized it the night before, what with the guilt and terror that dominated his thoughts at the time, but he felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

The wound seemed to have been closed, but Elian knew it was likely scarred over. It didn’t mean that just because he’d managed to take out his anger and his want for vengeance that he would no longer slip into that frame of mind on occasion, but what it meant was that it was far less likely, and probably nigh impossible as long as he was around Jack. He smiled and pulled Jack’s face into his, placing a passionate kiss on the farmboy’s lips. He was, for the time being, genuinely happy. The guilt over what he’d done was still niggling at the edges of his consciousness, but the majority of it had evaporated with Jack’s reassurance. The farmboy leaned over him, pushing him onto his back, their lips still locked together, tongues sliding against each other in a sensual, passionate dance.

Jack pulled away first to take a breath, then grinned wryly at Elian before wrapping his fingers around the blond’s hardness. “Ready to go again?” he asked with a chuckle that Elian echoed before nodding. Jack shrugged and leaned back to flaunt his own stiffness in front of Elian. “Me too” he said before diving back in and locking lips with his lover for the second time that minute. Whatever daily chores both young men needed to do back in the farmstead were quickly forgotten because the clearing rang with the sounds of two virile youths in the middle of lovemaking. Glaise whined, nearby, before pawing at his ears as he tried to shut out the sound.

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It had not taken long the previous night for Bran to spew his long pent-up load into the waiting, and apparently unwillingly eager entrance of the watchman Caedh. How something like this had gone on for a long enough time to break the soldier’s will so thoroughly, and to make him so completely dependent on the things that Gython did to him, Bran did not know. There was, one thing, that he knew beyond a reasonable doubt in this matter. It was that he should have been watching his men closer. Gython was one of the handful of soldiers that the generals and the King had demanded they take with them in order to bolster their numbers. Caedh was among that count as well. Bran had been far too lenient because both he and Gwen had believed that their own, more experienced men would bring the others into the fold and temper them enough that they would have the same camaraderie and fraternity as the original troupe. He realized now how wrong they had been.

He’d first noticed that something was quite off when it became apparent that there was a rift of some sorts in the camp. On the one side, Gwen and Bran and their core group of men. On the other, the ones that had been forced upon them by the hands of those much more powerful and higher up on the political food chain than they. Gython headed those men. He’d known that something was not quite right back then, and had a heated discussion with Gwen about bringing the others to heel, especially Gython. As events unfolded, however, it became clear that Gython would hold authority over the other men no matter what Bran or Gwen did. At that point, the two commanders decided it better to leave things alone rather than risk a mutiny from Gython and his men. The giant, with his immense strength was, undeniably, vital in case they ever had to face another company of men along the way. They had the misfortune to do so, and the giant proved his mettle then. The choice had been taken away from Bran and Gwen that day as they mounted the heads of the enemy militia on unnaturally slow-melting spikes of ice.

Bran had not realized just how deeply the corruption had taken root, and how many lives it had upended. It was clear as day, now, to him. The other men were not loyal to Gython out of admiration or dogged loyalty. They were loyal to the towering hulk of a man out of fear. Gython was one of their small contingent’s wounds, and they were rapidly losing blood from all of them. Gython was the easiest to resolve. He had to be cauterized. The pain could be dealt with, but so long as the unholy creature lived and breathed in his camp, Bran was sure as day that there would be no end to their suffering. He’d taken Caedh from Gython, and meant to protect the broken watchman with all his power, but he also knew that the giant would probably just find another soldier and do the same to them. It was a prospect that Bran felt both queasy about and responsible for. He had taken the watchman from the giant for Caedh’s own good, but as commander of their contingent, he could not, in good conscience, allow the same to happen to another.

Morning was but a few hours away. He resolved to take care of the wound then. There was, one matter, however, with dealing with Gython. Caedh. It would have been quite so simple to reveal the giant’s perversion, but that only meant allowing the watchman’s deepest, darkest secret known to the rest of his comrades. While they were all brothers, he did not know if all would be as understanding as Bran was. Taking care of the giant would have to take a level of finesse and special care that the commander was not used to taking. He decided he would confront the man outside of camp before the break of dawn. Out of sight and out of mind, there would be none to contest his word if Gython never returned.

Bran looked down at the naked shivering form laying beside him. He’d decided to pull the topmost pad from his small bed and placed it on the floor for Caedh to sleep on. The watchman had staunchly refused, instead sleeping on cold, hard ground with nothing but the remaining snow that had not been cleaned away to be his bed. The sight had tugged at Bran’s heart, so instead of sleeping on his own bed, he lay down the mat and then himself lay on it. He pulled Caedh closer, wrapping his arms around the young man’s midriff to share with him what little warmth he could. No one deserved what the poor watchman had gone through, but it seemed as though none of the gods were smiling down on him. In a rare moment of affection, Bran smoothed down a single lock of snow-white hair that had gone awry on Caedh’s unruly mop. It had been sticking up like a tiny horn. Almost adorable, had it not been on such a broken and battered man.

Bran sighed and let sleep overtake him, mentally noting to himself that he would wake up in a few hours and confront and possibly end Gython then.

\----------

There were very few times in his twenty-odd years of life that Jack could truly say he was happy in. He supposed one of the few times was when he’d gotten Glaise as a puppy for the seventh year celebration of when Kyle and Nyko had found him. They couldn’t really call it his birth day as neither of the two had the faintest idea when Jack had actually been born, and as a result, he wasn’t entirely sure how old he was either. In any case, that was one of the few times he’d been really happy. Another was when he’d found the clearing and the pond, a tranquil and, in truth, convenient place for him to retreat to whenever he was feeling unhappy or he just wanted to get away from some of the more draconic rules that Nyko imposed upon him. He’d always understood, at least on a basic level, why Nyko had been so strict, but, had the two raised children before, his parents would have known that the more a child is told not to do something, the more likely the child is to to do exactly what he was forbidden. In any case, there was another time to add to that list, and it was now.

The bright light of day was streaming into the clearing, making the waters of the pond appear crystal clear as they rippled in the slight breeze that somehow managed to find its way through the trees. Jack was lying on top of Elian, both manhood and entrance sated for the time being, his lust having finally found an outlet. It was, frankly, amazing how much a few years of pent-up desire could do to contribute to a person’s stamina when it came to lovemaking, and while both young men, the farmboy and the blond underneath him, were exhausted, it was the good kind of exhaustion. They’d coupled a grand total of three more times after they had cleared the air between them, twice with Jack receiving a rough fucking that only served to release more of the aggression that had clogged up Elian’s system, and once with Elian giving himself up to the farmboy, if only to return the same gesture of trust that the platinum had given him. In truth, Jack had also pressed for it so that he could show Elian that getting fucked didn’t always mean violence, or rape, as he was sure the blond had already subconsciously associated.

As a result, both young men were giggling at each other quite happily. They were both momentarily sated, and, for the time being, at least, entirely unconcerned with the world around them. Neither young man could really explain or pinpoint what was so funny, but every few minutes or so they would go in for a kiss, meld lips for a few moments, and then draw apart and start giggling, as though the kiss was, in itself, some sort of jest that only they could understand. Only, they couldn’t. One thing was for sure, however, and it was something that Jack had confessed to Elian when they’d both decided that their manhoods had had enough for one day… or at least the morning. His heart always skipped a beat, and his heart always fluttered when he looked at Elian’s face. He admitted that he’d felt something for Elian ever since he’d first laid eyes upon the young man’s pale naked skin under the light of the moon. He admitted, much to the blond’s chagrin, that Elian was perhaps the most beautiful creature he had ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon. The sappy, romantic words only served to draw blood to the young prince’s face, making him flush in a characteristically adorable fashion that was, in many ways, the object of Jack’s final admission.

It had taken a short while for Elian to come up with a decent retort, what with embarrassment from the compliment muddying his thoughts. He didn’t really think he was that beautiful, never saw himself as more than just average, and, in some ways, actually inferior. Back in Vamara, he’d been the only one with white hair, and everyone he’d seen, all the beautiful men around him, had all had the same, or a variation in shade thereof, of the brown that graced Andrew’s head. He found _them_ to be the beautiful specimens, yet here was a farmboy, living faraway from Vamara, telling him with such conviction that he scarcely believed Jack was lying that he was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. The very thought made him flush with embarrassment, but at the same time, created a warmth in him that felt, for some inexplicable reason, so very, _very_ good. In retort, and, in truth, somewhat in revenge for the embarrassment he’d caused Elian, the blond then confessed to Jack that he’d felt the same ever since the farmboy had helped him recover from his wounds and the poison he’d managed, in his ignorance, to ingest.

He went on to say that Jack was, in reality, the kindest soul he had ever seen. That the farmboy was the one and only person in his life that had believed in him from the beginning, that had never wavered in his faith in the young prince, that had never seen him as a monster to be hated just because he was different. Elian then also said that much like his younger brother, Jack was one of the very few people that did not see his ice as a curse, but saw it as something special, something capable of such beauty and good. “Thank you…” he told Jack, cupping the side of the farmboy’s face. “Thank you for believing in me… For showing me that I’m not as bad as I thought I was…” There were tears in both their eyes, and they couldn’t help the smiles that spread across their faces. Elian’s trump card, though, was something more along the lines of something Jack would’ve said. In reality, the farmboy was taken aback, surprised that Elian even uttered those words. “And you’re the finest piece of ass I’ve ever laid hands on.” That statement, along with the squeeze Elian delivered to Jack’s rump as he said it, had the desired effect of turning Jack’s face as red as a tomato.

Elian couldn’t help but laugh as, with cheeks — the ones on Jack’s face, not the ones being kneaded by the blond — burning, Jack grabbed either side of the young princes face and made wanton love to the exile’s lips with his own.

\----------

Bran awoke with a start, blinking his eyes and seeing through a gash in the canvas that had apparently managed to open while he slept, at the gray sky of pre-dawn. He yawned and stretched his arms, freezing almost instantaneously when he heard the soft sobbing and sniffling of the man that was lying beside him. Caedh had curled himself up into the fetal position as soon as Bran had removed his arms from around the watchman who was making the most broken, most piteous sounds that the commander had ever heard. Every sob. Every whimper. Every whine. Every sniffle. Every shuddering breath… They all cut straight through the tough facade that Bran had built around himself and struck him right in the very core of his being. They made his heart ache with sympathy and pity for the poor broken man. They made him, for the moment, at least, reconsider Caedh’s request of ending his life out of mercy. He shook his head and told himself that killing the watchman would be no mercy. It would be cruelty to deny him even the slightest chance to rebuild himself.

The commander rose from the mat and replaced it on his bed, making sure to put it on the bottom so that the snow that clung to the underside of the mat wouldn’t damage the rest. He was putting on his armour, having learned how to do it alone, without the help of a squire. He liked doing it. Donning his armour involved an invariable number of steps that always had to be performed in specific order. Doing that little ritual at the start of every day felt almost invigorating for Bran. It helped clear his mind and set his sights on what was pertinent at the time. Right now, it was Gython. “Why?” croaked the curled up figure on the floor, startling the commander who spent a few moments of silence trying to pull on his greaves afterwards. “Why did you lie beside me?” asked Caedh, voice trembling as though questioning Bran’s motives was treason punishable by death.

Finally managing to pull on his greaves, the commander knelt by the watchman and clapped a hand on Caedh’s shoulder. “I don’t know… I… I wanted to help” he said, trying his best to choose the right words that would not further demean the other, younger man. He’d meant to say that he felt sorry for Caedh, that he pitied the watchman, that there was a pang of sympathy that he’d felt seeing the other man lying on nothing but the cold ground, naked and shivering, but he knew that all those words would only serve to make the soldier feel as though he was less than a man. He knew it would make Caedh feel as though he was just something to be pitied, something to be sorry for. Something like an injured pet. That was the last thing Bran wanted to do. After all, he wanted to help rehabilitate the watchman into, at the very least, a productive member of society.

Caedh made a high-pitched keening sound, one that again, managed to cut right through Bran’s heart. “I-I know y-you mean well…” he said, voice cracking from sheer emotional stress. The watchman drew in a deep breath, and the commander’s stomach fluttered as he saw the slight quiver that ran down Caedh’s naked frame. His stomach turned when he saw the tremble that followed, accompanying a ragged, breathy sigh that escaped the watchman’s lips. “But… I… I couldn’t sleep…” Bran’s face fell, and he raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. There was that deep breath followed by a sigh again. It almost made Bran want to weep. “Gython… Gython made sure I was as uncomfortable as possible…” The commander shook his head, anger flaring yet again at the admission. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the giant’s throat and strangle the life out of him, though Bran was sure that being the much smaller man, he would probably die for exposing himself in such a manner long before he actually managed to commit his murder.

The watchman had stopped squeezing his eyes closed, and was instead staring blankly at the canvas wall of the tent opposite him. “Having you there…” Caedh shuddered, and there was something in Bran that felt a profound, unfathomable sadness at the sight. “It was so… _comfortable_ …” It was Bran’s turn to shiver, the word and its connotation triggering something within him. What that something was, he did not entirely know, but he knew that if there was one person in the camp that he wanted to protect, it would be this, broken, bruised, and battered man. So broken in spirit that he couldn’t even take his own life to end his suffering and misery. Bran would not do it for him, nor would he allow it. He would protect Caedh. He would protect all his men, but Caedh most of all. “It felt so… _right_ ” the watchman whimpered at the admission. “I just knew… I just knew Gython would come running through the camp and tear everything down and kill you so that I wouldn’t be comfortable anymore.”

The sound of armor shifting filtered through the tent, prompting the curled up watchman to unfurl and lean back on his elbows to watch the commander. Bran had not moved an inch, but his fingers had curled up into fists. Underneath his plate gauntlets, his knuckles were very nearly white. He was thankful for the armor, because it allowed his trembling to go relatively unnoticeable. His jaw was tightly set, and his eyebrows were furrowed, and it was so painfully clear that the commander was absolutely brimming with barely-contained anger, that a worried look crossed Caedh’s already-despairing face. “I’m sorry…” said the watchman lying back down and folding himself neatly back up into the fetal position to hide his face and his shame from Bran. He could only wish that he had a tail to hide his hole and ass so that the commander would not have to see his own cum drying on the supple flesh of Caedh.

“No. No” said Bran so quietly that Caedh at first thought that the commander had not talked at all. His fury was just beneath the surface, growing, becoming stronger. He could barely keep it in check. He was itching to take his sword out of its scabbard and drive it straight through Gython’s body, but he knew it would only serve to further destabilize the situation. “Get up” he said, swiftly grabbing Caedh’s arm with a gentleness that was surprising for the amount of force that he’d seemed to put into the motion. “Get dressed” he commanded in his most authoritative voice possible, knowing that with the instincts beaten into him by Gython, the watchman would have no choice but to follow. The commander felt dirty that he had to exploit Caedh’s brokenness, but he found solace in the fact that he knew he was just doing it in order to help the man. It didn’t take very long for the soldier to get dressed again, but Bran was impatiently starting out the gash in the tent canvas the whole while, worrying about the daylight. “We’re dealing with _him_ today.”

Cheeks burning with shame, though the redness did not entirely show through the pallor of his skin, Caedh pulled on his shift and his armour — meagre compared to Bran’s — before facing his commander and lower his eyes to the floor. He heard a low rumble as Bran growled in irritation, knowing that the meekness of the man before him was because of Gython. “Come on” said the commander as he dragged Caedh out of the tent, making the scared watchman stumble on the way out. Through gritted teeth, Bran said “You don’t have to do what he made you do when you were with him, anymore.” The white-haired man’s eyes widened, even as he stared at Bran’s feet that were quite angrily trudging through the inch or two of snow that had piled up since the previous night. “Whatever it was he did to you… No one will be doing to you unless you want them to, now” said the commander, vice-like grip on Caedh’s arm loosening to something more comforting, more reassuring. “You are a man, _dammit!_ You’re not some obedient lapdog, there to do the bidding of anyone better than you. You are a soldier!” said Bran angrily.

“And as a man, like each and every single one of your brothers and sisters in this camp, you have the right to a chance to put yourself back together.” There were tears welling in Bran’s eyes, but he couldn’t tell why Caedh’s plight affected him so. All he knew was that as long as he was helping the other man, the haunted faces in his mind’s eye, of the friends he’d failed to protect, of his brothers in all but blood now lost to him, they smiled in agreement with what he was doing and gave him peace. This was to be his redemption, and he would be damned if he let Caedh throw it all away in a moment of self-loathing. The commander turned around and grabbed the watchman by the shoulders and shook him with a vigour that made the other man’s head roll around as though it was only loosely held on by his neck. “You are a soldier and from this day forth, you _will_ be a soldier. You are stronger than you know.”

Meekly, and doubtful but unwilling to incur the ire of his commanding officer, the watchman nodded his acknowledgment of the fact. Nevertheless, Bran managed to succeed in doing one thing correctly, he’d managed to plant a seed of independence and self-confidence in the watchman. While he doubted, some small part of him, fortunately spared from Gython’s ruthlessness, latched on to what Bran had said as a beacon of hope, a promise that maybe someday, he’d get to be whole again. Nevertheless, that small voice squeaked in much the same way that Caedh squeaked when they saw Gython exit his tent and rise to his full height. Bran walked up to the giant, the terrified watchman in tow. “What are you doing with my plaything?” asked the larger man, staring down the commander and placing a massive hand on the equally large war hammer hanging by his side. Bran had his hand on his sword’s hilt. Both of them had weapons made of ice, their more conventional ones stowed away where they would be safe from the cold that would otherwise cripple them.

“He is not your plaything” replied Bran in challenge to Gython’s infuriating arrogance. “Shall we take this out of camp?” asked the commander in a tone that implied it was not a request, but an order. With an arrogant smirk, the giant nodded, and curtsied to Bran. At the bottom of his bow, however, he glared at Caedh, as though to signal the watchman to do something for him. The white-haired man’s hand went to his sword, and had begun slipping it out of where he kept it, when he managed to remind himself of the kindness that Bran had shown him. The commander had told him that he did not need to do what the giant demanded of him, not anymore, because he was a _soldier_ , a man. He sheathed the sword again and looked defiantly at Gython for a brief moment before looking away quickly, the fear getting the better of him.

The giant narrowed his eyes at the watchman and straightened to his full height yet again, looming over both Bran and Caedh. “You’ve managed to give him a bit of a spine” rumbled the giant, in a tone that carried something that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “Did you fuck it into him?” said Gython with a laugh. He fixed Caedh with another glare and said, paying very little heed to the angry look that Bran flashed him “You may have a defender right now, bitch, but once I’m done with him—” Gython cocked his head to the side at the commander who was bristling at being ignored. “—You’ll have someone else to keep you company and to fight with over my cock” He continued, suggestively grabbing his crotch. “Well, _commander?_ ” said Gython with mocking scorn. “Lead the way?”

Bran decided not to further lend to Gython’s arrogance by remaining quiet. He did not want to escalate the situation any more than he had to, not while they were still inside the camp. He stiffly grabbed Caedh and pushed him in front, keeping his hand on the watchman’s shoulder to guide him to where he wanted to go. Gython followed, a confident smirk on his face. Bran didn’t want the giant anywhere near Caedh where he couldn’t see them, hence why he made the watchman take the front. It took a few minutes, but fortunately, none but the watchmen saw the small party leaving the camp. It was when they were more than a few metres into the treeline that Bran turned to face Gython.

“You are a monster. A disease on this camp” he growled, drawing his sword from its sheath with a speed that left Caedh confused. Bran was a very skilled swordsman, despite what his temperament would suggest at first glance. A maniacal grin manifested itself on Gython’s face at the prospect of combat. It had been a while since the giant had had a worthy opponent, though he was sure that Bran would be unable to defeat him. He was, after all, much larger, and, in terms of raw strength, far superior to the smaller man. With a hearty laugh that rumbled through the trees, Gython removed his hammer from the loop in his belt and spun it over his head before swinging it down on Bran, who managed to quickly evade the blow, knocking Caedh aside in the process. The watchman had been frozen in place, and probably would have been the next target had Bran not managed to throw him a decent ways away from the ongoing combat.

With surprising speed, Gython blocked the swing of the icy sword with the haft of his hammer, eliciting a surprised sound from Bran. The giant laughed, regarding the commander with a steely glare as he swung his weapon around only to be met with a parry that just barely withstood the force of the impact. “Me? A monster?” said Gython, swinging again and again, bearing down on the commander with a strength that threatened to break the icy sword. Unrelenting in his offensive, Gython looked at Caedh, who was cowering nearby, and said “I merely released the bitch that was hiding itself inside him. Tell me, _commander_ , did he ask you to fuck him as roughly as you possibly could when you took him into your tent last night?” Bran was startled by the question, his parry faltering and ripping his sword from his hand. The icy blade embedded itself in the ground, and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of another swing from Gython. “I’ll take that as a yes” said the giant. “He’s a _bitch_ , commander. I merely educated him on how to be true to what he actually _is_.”

Bran attempted to get to his sword but was met with just another swing to knock him away from the blade. He was at the giant’s mercy. “I think…” said Gython, using his hammer to steady himself against the ground as he placed a foot on the handguard of the sword embedded in the ground. “I think I’ll break you so much, you’ll be _his_ bitch” said the giant, cocking his head at Caedh whose eyes were wide with both fear of Gython and fear for Bran. The giant laughed before walking over to the commander who was struggling to get up from the blow that had knocked the breath clean out of his lungs and kicked Bran in the side. The force of the blow sent Bran sliding across the ground and into a nearby tree-trunk, knocking the wind out of him a second time. He coughed, getting onto all fours and wiping the blood from where he’d accidentally bit his lip.

“Take me, then” he demanded, of the giant, wheezing as he tried to get his regular breath back. “Take me, but let him go” he said again, more desperately. He cast a glance at Caedh, who was shaking his head from side to side in horror and looking at his commander with a pleading gaze. Bran just smiled apologetically at the other man, but the smile quickly slid off his face, a gasp of pain replacing it when Gython walked over to him and kicked him again.

“No” said the giant, lopsided grin on his face, revelling in how he’d managed to lay the commander of their contingent low. “Like I said. I’ll make you his bitch.” Bran’s eyes widened in terror, fear gripping his heart. He tried to scramble to his feet but Gython just kicked him down again. It was only a few moments later, in between Bran’s groans from pain that the giant heard the unmistakable, but absolutely impossible noise filtering through the trees. It was the sound of metal warping, of a sword blade running against a sword blade, sheets of metal screeching against each other. Gython turned around too late to do anything about the creature that was looming over him. It was massive. Half as tall, almost, as some of the shorter trees in the forest. Its head seemed to be made of sheets of metal warped and formed together in chaotic but intricate patterns to create the semblance of a horse’s head. Set into either side were eyes of what seemed to be glowing amber, but if one were only to look closer, one would see stars seeming to dance inside them.

The rest of the creature seemed mundane enough, as it was very much like a horse in many respects save for the most important: it was not made of flesh. It was a creature made of metal, a kind unknown to those in the mortal realm, a kind of metal that many of the legendary swords of history were forged from. These creatures were incredibly difficult to kill. But it was the one thing about them that departed from the horses of the mortal realm that gave them their namesake. Where horses had tufts of hair running down their backs for manes, these creatures had blades. Innumerable blades sharper than what any mundane blacksmith, even with the power of magic or the will of the gods could create. These blades grew and shrank and moved by the will of the creature. With Gython duly distracted by the appearance of the blademane, Bran scrambled to his feet, managing to find a heavy rock wedged into the roots of the tree he’d been pinned against by the giant.

He motioned to Caedh for the watchman to come closer as he hefted the rock in his hands. Slowly, Caedh inched towards Bran. The blademane was, in much the same fashion as Gython, occupied. The two creatures were facing off in a battle of wills, almost daring the other to act first. There was a primal intelligence in the blademane, one that no mortal mind could comprehend. When Caedh was finally by his side, Bran rose to his full height and stretched his arm as far as he could before bringing down the heavy rock on the back of Gython’s neck with all the strength he could muster. There was a loud crack that filled the clearing, and, in a manner that made it almost seem as though time had slowed down, the giant fell face-first into the snow. The blade mane reared up, the countless blades and daggers that gave it its namesake rattling and screeching and vibrating in alarm. “Run!” Bran told Caedh as he dashed for his sword.

The commander wrenched the blade from the ground with his left hand and started to run in the direction that Caedh had taken off in. It wasn’t until he heard the high-pitched keen that made him almost sag to his knees that he realized the unthinkable. There was more than one of the creatures. He looked back over his shoulder only to see three more pairs of glowing yellow eyes run out of the woods, blades brandished to either side. He had only a fraction of a second of warning before one of the blades lashed out at him. He turned away, fortunately saving himself from decapitation, but his left arm was less fortunate. He screamed in pain as he felt the blade slice cleanly through his shoulder, amputating his entire left arm, making blood spurt everywhere, staining the nearby snow crimson.

Caedh heard Bran’s agonized cry and looked back to see the horror that had happened, though fortunately for the commander, the other blademanes seemed to have realized that there was an easier meal nearby. Gython’s body was a flurry of blades darting in and out, slicing flesh into small pieces, then spearing the pieces and bringing them to the blademanes’ mouths. Caedh ran back to his commander and hefted the man’s good arm over his shoulder, meaning to drag Bran all the way back to camp. Camp was nearby, but things were not looking good for the other man. Blood loss had already made Bran feel faint. Looking back over his shoulder to make sure the blademanes were still occupied with the body of his tormentor, Caedh set the commander down on the snow and looked at the extent of the wound. It was a terrifying sight, one that made him almost want to gag, but he had to help in any way he could.

He summoned his ice, the terrifying, terrifying power he’d woken up with one day and had refused to use since. He summoned the ice and willed the air between his hands to become as cold as it could possibly become and brought the extreme cold to Bran’s amputated shoulder. It seemed to work. The extreme cold helped to cauterize the wound, stemming the flow of blood, but making him roar in agony. Worriedly, Caedh looked back, but to his relief, the blademanes were still working on their gruesome task. There was a part of him, however, that felt quite vilified to see Gython’s demise. Half of the corpse seemed to have already been picked clean. There was very little blood or sinew. It was, perhaps, no longer apt to describe Gython’s dead body as a corpse. The bones were picked clean, white and gleaming in the snow, as though beetles had done their work and removed every scrap of flesh and blood that could have stained the bones. It was unnatural. It was disturbing.

Hefting the commander’s good arm over his shoulders, Caedh pulled Bran up and, with all the speed he could muster, started dragging the both of them back towards camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah. Remember the "mythological" creature that had attacked Tristan and Rein way back in their childhood? The same creature that slipped into the conversation between Kristoff and Daemon? Well... They're real. And they're appearing where they have absolutely no business appearing.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! What do you think of the interaction between Jack and Elian now? How about Caedh and Bran? Thoughts? Feedback? I'd love to hear it. What do you think will happen next?
> 
> In any case... Here's a preview of next week's chapter!
> 
> _Gwen watched the little girl as she sat down and drew her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth. She was something else, that one, and Gwen didn’t know exactly what to think of her anymore._


	20. Blades of the Middleworlds

Finding their way back to the camp was a lot more difficult than Caedh had anticipated, what with the near-dead weight of Bran weighing him down. The watchman trudged through the snow, dragging his commander along with him, unwilling to give the other man up to death. There was, certainly, a part of him that wished Bran had never freed him from Gython because while it had been torment to be at the mercy of the giant, it had been certain. Now, broken as he was, reduced to a shell of the man he had once been, made slave to predilections he’d never known before, trained into following the orders of seemingly far superior men, the future seemed absolutely uncertain, especially now that Bran’s life was teetering on the edge. Then, he heard the high-pitched screeching and keening of the blademanes. He whipped his head around, fully expecting the ones that had consumed Gython to be in hot pursuit of himself and the commander, but the eerily empty forest behind him was far more terrifying. Where had the noise come from? It took a few more minutes before they came into eyesight, and, more importantly, earshot of camp.

Then, they heard it, screams and yells and the sound of metal warping. They were under attack from the blademanes. How the unholy creatures had managed to find their way this far south was unfathomable, unthinkable, for the two men as they staggered into the outer ring of tents. Soldiers were dashing towards the eastern quarter of the camp, from where the sounds of battle were raging the loudest. Caedh considered for a moment leaving Bran there, but he could not, in good conscience, abandon the captain in such a compromising position where he could as easily be found by the hostile middleworlds creatures. He forged onwards, deeper into the camp, with Bran’s arm slung over his shoulders. The commander was drifting into and out of consciousness, his head hanging limply from his shoulders as he tried to fight the effects of the immense amount of blood he’d lost when his arm had been amputated. It wasn’t long before Caedh finally found the physicians’ pavilion, but he just as quickly discovered that the place was filled with men who had suffered similar, if not worse fates to Bran. He shuddered, dragging Bran to Aeron, the physician that treated him whenever Gython was too rough.

“Please. Help the commander” he begged the physician, who fixed Caedh with an incredulous look followed by a weary expression. Aeron shook his head; pale, shoulder-length hair whipping about as he did before sighing and motioning for Caedh to follow him to a relatively less packed corner of the pavilion. There was a worried crease on the physician’s face. His brows were knitted together in consternation as he examined Bran and the bloodstains on his armour. He touched the area where the blademane had managed to cut clean through plate mail, cloth, flesh, and bone. The physician drew back his hand, hissing in pain as the armour his finger through the mere act of tracing the edge of the slice.

“We need to get his armour off” said Aeron, conjuring a sharp shard of ice in his hands to slice through the leather straps that held the plate mail together. “Don’t give me that face.” Caedh had been frowning at the idea of damaging the armour, as it was, after all, one of the better specimens in the camp, and he knew Bran would be, while thankful for being treated, be disappointed to find his armour damaged. “I can’t treat him properly with the armor in the way. Not if the cut is as sharp as it is. Help me” said the physician, handing another shard of ice to Caedh, to saw off the straps that were closer to himself. With just the ice, it took them a little longer than would have been ideal to cut through the leather. The sounds of battle continued raging, far closer than comfortable, especially as the fight was happening in such close proximity to where the wounded were being treated. When they finally managed to lift the chestplate from Bran, Aeron instructed Caedh to set the damn thing aside, sharp side embedded in the snow so that it would not hurt anyone.

Done doing what he was told to do, Caedh returned to Aeron slowly divesting Bran of his clothing, the shard of ice having been taken to the rest of the garments that the commander wore underneath his armor. “What?” snapped the physician at Caedh who was standing nearby, a flush apparent on his cheeks. For some reason he was feeling a little pang of jealousy because of the way Aeron was so freely peeling clothing off of the commander, his benefactor and, in many ways, saviour. “I need to survey the damage” said the physician, turning back to his work and examining the wound and the flesh around it. Aeron grunted in surprise, having not noticed that the stump was not bleeding and the majority of blood in the area was either congealed or frozen. “What did you do?” demanded the physician, gingerly touching the exposed sinew, drawing a groan of pain from Bran immediately followed by a protective growl from Caedh. “How did you cauterize this?”

Caedh made a puzzled sound, not aware of what the word ‘cauterize’ meant. Exasperated, the physician shook his head and gestured to Bran’s stump. “How did you make it stop bleeding?” Caedh thought for a moment, but he couldn’t, really, find the words to explain how he’d reached into the recesses of his soul, his very essence, to grab the primal ice that dwelt there in order to summon a biting cold far more gelid than anything he had ever encountered in his mortal experience. Unable to put the procedure to words, he motioned for Aeron to follow him, knowing that the physician was far more adept at plying the ice than himself. He hoped Aeron would be able to emulate the first part of the procedure. Despite his fatigue from running around trying to treat everyone that came back from the battlefield the physician was titillated by the prospect of this new technique that could help save more lives.

Both men looked around for someone that hadn’t yet been bound up, but, fortunately, though it was much to both their chagrin, everyone seemed to be taken care of. They did not need to wait very long when another soldier was carried into the pavilion. Caedh and Aeron rushed to the soldier’s side, whose sword-hand seemed to have been amputated judging from the loop in the man’s belt. The watchman felt truly sorry for the man, he might not have known what it was like losing the hand that you used to wield your sword, but he knew what it was like to lose a great part of what made you whole. Caedh had lost his manhood, figuratively, to Gython, and this man had lost his sword arm, the one thing that made him useful in the middle of the field, to a blademane. The man was deliriously asking them to end his life, but in much the same way as Bran had resolutely denied him the bliss of the Westerlands, both Caedh and the physician played deaf to the soldier’s pleas.

The watchman very quickly realized, as he tried to perform what he had done for Bran a second time, that the sheer emotional pressure that had allowed him to breach a barrier in his being that he had not known existed, was absent. He made a sound halfway between a grunt, a growl and a whimper, out of frustration. When he finally realized that trying again and again wouldn’t work, he reached for his more mundane ice and used that to summon a cold air between his hands. It was still extremely cold, but it wasn’t nearly as potent as what he had created for Bran. The physician watched the procedures carefully, noting what the watchman was doing in his head, in order to allow himself to repeat the process as accurately as possible. Caedh brought his hands to the stump and it quickly started freezing over, the stream of blood slowing as it did. Aeron tapped his shoulder and gently moved him to the side to try his own luck at the cautery. It took him a few moments, but he finally managed to do what he needed to and finished closing the wound for the time being.

The muffled groans of pain from the more fortunate men, the ones that were still breathing and had yet to be grasped by death’s stiffness, filled the tent and threatened to overwhelm Caedh, unused to the kind of carnage that he was witnessing. Some of these men, in truth, most of them, had seen the most ruthless battles and survived, yet it seemed that the middleworlds creatures were something else entirely. They were. They were abominations acting on some sort of twisted intelligence with what seemed to be a singular, all-important objective: the termination of as many human lives as possible. Caedh leaned against a nearby table, careful not to squish anything important, as he tried to gather his breath and wits about him. The adrenaline was still pumping through his system, and, in reality, it was the only thing keeping what had just happened from sinking in entirely. He staggered over to Bran, Aeron following behind him, when he heard the commander groan in pain. He scrubbed the daze from his eyes and noticed that the wound had reopened and was starting to ooze blood, although, much slower now. The blood itself seemed to be thicker, as well.

Feeling fear well inside of him, the watchman was able to summon the same primal ice he’d used earlier and used that to conjure a cold that could not be compared to anything else in existence. Using that cold he sealed the wound again and turned to the physician whose worried look seemed to confirm what he’d thought upon resealing the captain’s stump. The ice was just a temporary staying measure. They could not use it indefinitely, and while it would help slow down the breakneck pace at which the pavilion was currently running, it would not cure all their problems. They needed bandages, and the proper materials to make sure that these men survived. Caedh fingered the hilt of his sword, wondering if he should heed the word of Bran and make a man of himself again, as he was a soldier who deserved the chance to do as much.

The watchman cast his gaze back to his commander, lying pale on his good side, stump dusted in a layer of frost that was keeping him just barely alive as Aeron hovered over him, trying to stabilize his condition. Then, in a moment of lucidity amidst the chaos, Caedh realized that what Gython had said was probably true, that the giant had only done one thing, and that was to awaken a hunger that existed within Caedh, that not even he, the possessor of his own body, knew existed. The watchman continued to thumb the hilt of his sword, weighing the options, before, with a pained whine, he unsheathed the blade and drove it into the ground. He didn’t feel like a man anymore, and with the brutal fight he’d witnessed and been unable to do anything about, he didn’t feel much a soldier either. Gython had taken the first from him, and in the process, paved the way for the second to be lost to him as well. Nevertheless, he knew he could still be helpful, what with the new ability he’d learned. He tapped Aeron on the shoulder, undoing the armour that he wore. He knelt down by the physician and asked what he could help with around the pavilion.

Caedh knew he’d been changed forever, and that there was no going back to the way things once were. He decided he would make the best of what he had left, and perhaps that would be enough to redeem his cowardice in not fighting to retain his manhood. There was some part of him that bristled at the idea of casting off his past and his once-duties, but he knew it needed to be done. Here, he would be of much more help. He would learn what he could to take care of the injured, and he would use all he learned for the benefit of one person first: his commander, his saviour. Perhaps he was no longer a man in the eyes of many, no longer a soldier, even, but now he had created for himself a new purpose, and he would see to it that he did not fail it. He knelt by the now-motionless body of his commander, who was breathing shallow, pained breaths even as he drifted into unconsciousness. The watchman looked at Bran and brushed away hair plastered to his face by a sheen of sweat with his fingers. Then. He made sure that the commander was comfortable before looking around to find Aeron and ask what else he could lend a hand to.

#####

It was quite a rude awakening that she had faced that morning, Gwen mused as she grabbed another soldier that had been amputated by one of the five blademanes in front of them back into the others. They were getting picked off one by one, but fortunately, their ice weapons were holding for the moment against the hellish creatures. What Gwen was aware of that the other members of the company might not be, was that the weapons would not hold for much longer. She’d managed a fleeting glance at the blade of her icy claymore, but even that quick look, when she swung it in front of her face to sever one of the blades coming for her, showed that the edge was getting nicked and that it was beginning to crack. Luckily, she knew enough about the damn thing and ice that she was able to swiftly repair some of the damage. Nevertheless, they weren’t going to last much longer. Without steel, they were very much defenseless against the blademanes. Down went another. This one wasn’t as lucky as the other one. This fool had jumped right into the fray, too deep for anyone to rescue him now that he had succumbed to the relentless attack.

In any case, they could use the distraction, as the five blademanes together looked at their prize and began picking off his flesh from his bones and drinking the blood that invariably dripped from them. The flurry of blades that were attacking the soldiers subsided for a moment as the creatures continued to feed. The party surged forward, ice blades cutting through the air and colliding with metallic bodies with deafening, almost simultaneous clangs that proved to create more noise than do damage to the middleworlds beasts. Gwen noticed that the group had almost finished feeding. She raised her blade so that all may see it and yelled for the men to retreat to their prior positions. They couldn’t scramble out of the way fast enough, and only moments later, the attacks resumed. Only, this time, it seemed as though the blademanes had gained even more intelligence. Their strikes seemed more precise, though very few of them still managed to hit. Gwen was trying her best to deduce what the abominations were trying to accomplish, but couldn’t, for the life of her, piece together what they were doing.

It wasn’t until she realized, as she was parrying a blade that went far too close for comfort to her face, that the cracks on her sword were widening, that she realized what the damnable beasts were doing. They were levying their attacks on the weapons instead of the men and women wielding them, having determined that the ice was as unnatural as they and was the only thing protecting the company. Old-fashioned steel would not have done the job of ending the miserable lives of the abominations, Gwen mused as she continued to parry blade after blade that came at her and others near her. Vamara produced enchanted steel, imbued with magic to make them stronger. She had witnessed that steel cut right through one of the damn blademanes back before they had embarked on this journey of theirs. The one problem with Vamaran steel was the fact that it very easily lost its edge, and needed a lot of maintenance. That was the one reason she and the rest of her company of men were using ice weapons. Since their whetstones had shattered, the steel had become downright useless. As for their armor, the truth of the matter was that the enchanted steel was immensely expensive and one set of armor for one soldier in one small company was well above what they could afford.

“Follow my lead” said Gwen to her officers who were closest to her as she rubbed her hands together, summoning the ice within her. She slammed her hands on the ground and in front of her rose a wall about as tall as the blademanes and as thick as a person from side to side. The ice was just clear enough to see through to the blademanes, but it was thick enough that their blades were having a tough time slicing through. Her officers spread out and created a concave of similar walls to contain the beasts at her orders. “Repair your weapons while we have this reprieve!” she shouted, projecting her voice as best as she could to ensure that all the remaining soldiers would hear her. A lot of them did not know how to do what she’d just said, but there were a handful that did. They would have to either teach the others or do it for them. They didn’t have much time. The walls weren’t going to hold forever, not against the kind of blades that the middleworlds beasts carried with them. True enough, and almost as though to prove the point of her musings, a large slab of the leftmost wall crashed, thankfully, into the enclosure and not on her men.

She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a bloodcurdling scream from the opposite side of camp made the blood in her veins run cold. She could smell the unmistakable tang of piss in the air as some of her men, and, probably a few of the women, wet themselves in terror at what the sound implied. The opposite side of camp had been breached, and they had lost a couple dozen men to life-threatening injury just trying to hold off the blademanes in this side. The day was not proving very hospitable for them, and they could only hope that they could survive it. Then, a sound more terrifying than the last echoed through the camp, making even the blademanes pause in their relentless attack to listen. It was a screech of metal against metal, very similar to the sounds the blademanes in front of Gwen’s company made, but this one had something about it that could not be taken to mean anything other than pain. There were very few times when Gwen found herself praying to the gods. This was one of them. The blademanes were bad enough on their own. Any creature capable of causing _them_ pain was a creature one would never want to encounter under any circumstances.

The creaking of metal and unmistakable sound of a horse galloping filled the ears of the soldiers pinned up against their walls, waiting in terror to see what it was that was capable of tormenting the blademanes. The entire camp, in truth, seemed to have fallen into hushed silence, save for intermittent, pained screeches from the far side from where Gwen was. Even the blademanes beyond the walls of ice had stopped, watching, waiting warily for whatever manner of ungodly creature it was that was riding towards them now. Gwen could feel the entire company reacting to the sound of its approach. A wind had kicked up the powdered snow on the ground and obscured their vision, so with every creak and screech that was drawing inexorably closer, all of the men, Gwen included, seemed to shrink back towards the walls. The sight that rode through the thin veil of airborne snow was so unearthly, Gwen had to pause for a moment to consider whether she was still sleeping and was just in a nightmare.

Finally visible through the snow, there was a blademane with a bit of ice in its mouth, a bridle of frost around its muzzle, and reins seemingly made of snow trailing back to the little girl sitting on a strangely smooth patch on the back of the blademane. The creature’s nostrils were flared, as though in fear, but it seemed to follow every movement of the little girl as though its life depended on it. Many of the blades in the creature’s namesake mane were broken, some looked dulled beyond use, and patches of the creature’s mane were missing altogether. Liana’s expression was, far more terrifyingly than the fact that she seemed to have been able to tame one of the beasts that had plagued the world with their presence for so long, indifferent. It was almost as though riding a blademane was not as great a feat as it truly was. Gwen shook her head, locking eyes with the little girl who sniffed and turned her face up at the commander. It seemed as though someone had a grudge. “Do you want to help?” she called out to Liana. They did, after all, need backup. If the little girl could truly subdue such a creature, then she wasn’t about to question her. Not as long as the battle raged.

Liana nodded, tapping her heels against the flanks of the blademane, riding it forward through the gathered soldiers. They parted before her like reeds before the wind. Everyone was still either stunned or disbelieving of what their eyes were seeing. Gwen would not have blamed any of her men if they believed that they had finally lost their sanity. She wasn’t so sure she was still of healthy mind herself, though knowing that everyone else was seeing the miracle riding through the company helped convince her that she was, at the very least, just about as insane as all the others. Nevertheless, perhaps finally, with the help of the least likely ally in the camp, they could turn the tide of battle and drive away, if not end the blademanes. The creatures were watching Liana’s approach warily, eyes almost seeming to bear a hint of fear. Their nostrils were flaring, and they were screeching and creaking, as though trying to communicate with their brethren underneath Liana, but the creature would not do such a thing. It was too afraid of its newfound master. Instead it seemed to stare at its brothers with a look that demanded they escape. They did not seem to comprehend.

With a mastery belied by her age, Liana deftly took down the wall in front of her and almost instantly, the middleworlds creatures resumed their assault. Undaunted, the little girl kicked the blademane beneath her and moved her hands through the air, making shards of ice fly up and intercept the blades as they darted for her. Gwen watched and learned from what the little girl was doing, something she thought she would never do in her life, especially from the girl that threatened the life of the man she was sure would be her one true love. Nevertheless, differences had to be put aside on the field of battle, and she raised her hands and followed what Liana was doing, doubling the assault of ice-shards pelting the blademanes. The more adept soldiers in the group did the same, and very soon, the blademanes were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of shards that were flying out at them. Liana smiled before jumping down from the blademane and making a strange motion that was followed by nothing happening. Gwen wondered if the little girl had lost her mind, but in truth, it was she that had lost her faith in the child. A pillar of ice, razor-sharp at its end, erupted from the ground, piercing the lead blademane through a chink in its armor impaling its glowing amber heart that the spike then pushed out of its back.

The creature’s dying screams were almost as terrifying as the sounds it had made charging into the camp earlier, but this unsettled the other blademanes, allowing everyone else the chance to try what Liana had just done. None of them seemed to have gotten the technique right, however. Their pillars of ice broke upon contact with the metal bodies of the blademanes. Even Gwen’s was a failure, and that was something that she did not particularly think fondly of. What they did succeed in doing, however, was restraining the beasts as Liana walked over from one to the next, ending their miserable existences. She went back to the group still gathered behind the semicircle of walls, and as she did, the lead blademane seemed to just… _shimmer_ out of existence, leaving behind a very-scratched up pillar of ice where it had been mere moments ago. The blademane that Liana had been riding made the mistake of screeching in what seemed to be happiness. The noise was replaced by pain as it met the same fate.

Gwen watched the little girl as she sat down and drew her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth. She was something else, that one, and Gwen didn’t know exactly what to think of her anymore.

#####

After the battle and all the sounds had subsided, Gwen sent the rest of the troupe back to camp duties, delegating a few to survey the damage at the other side, and another handful to go to the physicians to see what they could help with. She was sure that with the number of men that had been wounded in the altercation with the blademanes, the physicians needed as much help as they could get. She’d made sure all the squires were present to help the healers, but they had very few, and even less seemed satisfactorily competent enough. After that was said and done, she had, with great hesitation, walked up to Liana and clapped a hand on the little girl’s shoulder, but she would have been better off doing the same for the block of ice nearby because Liana did not respond in any way. She just stood there for a moment, examining the little girl and the spires that had killed the blademanes and wondering where the child had managed to gather and learn to harness such power. She knew it would be fruitless to ask, as only a fool would think that the child did not bear some hostility towards the commander. Nevertheless, it was a bit surprising to feel her hand getting shrugged off as Liana stood and ran towards a man behind them, Caedh, particularly, who had come all the way for Gwen. His words haunted her, even as she raised an eyebrow at how the little girl wrapped her arms around his waist. _“Bran called for you. He’s hurt”_ he had said, making Gwen’s blood run cold.

She had been looking for the other commander during the battle, but seeing him nowhere near the front line, she’d only assumed that he was taking care of things in the rest of the camp. She hadn’t realized he would be anywhere in the line of fire. The short trip to the physicians’ pavilion was more than a bit harrowing, as both Caedh and Liana seemed to have no intentions of talking to her. Caedh, especially, came across as strange to the commander, because there was an air of hostility about him that she didn’t particularly know what to make of, nor did she like it. It hadn’t dawned on her, what with being in the middle of battle, with adrenaline surging in her veins, just how extensive the damage to her men had been. The sight in the physicians’ pavilion was gruesome. There was dried blood everywhere, and on everyone. Bran was in one corner, having just recently regained consciousness, but he was not looking too good. He was staring blankly at the stump of his left arm, melancholy about its loss, but at the same time, thankful that it was not his sword-arm that had been ripped so unceremoniously from him. He was more depressed that he would no longer be able to deck himself in his armour than anything. That one thing that kept him at peace, removed in a flash.

Gwen remembered panicking at the sight of her old friend being in such a dismal state, but she also vividly recalled the brief flash of anger that shadowed Caedh’s face at her reaction. She’d called for one of the physicians and demanded that Bran be bound in bandages and treated immediately. She knew the man had feelings for her, feelings that she could not reciprocate, but he was a friend. A dear one, nonetheless, and she did not want to see him in such a terrible state. The physician had been quick to tell her that what she wanted was impossible, anything that could be used for bandages had already been used, and the rest of the cloth in the camp was too unsanitary to even attempt to use. Whatever they could salvage was going outside to the firepits for sterilization, but even that would not be enough because of the sheer number of people that needed seeing to. They needed supplies, and those were not easily forthcoming from the camp. It was Caedh that proposed they venture into town to find whatever it was they needed, for Bran and for the others that had yet to be seen to. The small, weak smile that graced the commander’s face did not escape Gwen, and she wondered what had transpired between Caedh and Bran, but it was hardly the right time or place to press the matter. Liana knelt by Bran’s side and brought his hand to her cheek, nuzzling it, before looking up at Caedh with a burning determination on her face.

###

Had they not had scouts to check out the place a few days before camp was made nearby, the town that Gwen, Caedh, and Liana ventured into would have seemed entirely abandoned. They knew that was not the case. The townspeople were just in their houses, waiting out the winter storm that had come at such an inopportune time. Gwen felt a bit of remorse for a moment, wondering how many crops they’d ruined as they moved through the land. The remorse was short-lived. They had a mission, after all, and their king’s edict to bring back the young prince that had run away from their homeland was of paramount importance. Besides, Gwen was more than ready to sacrifice a few villages if it meant being brought together with the man she just _knew_ would be her true love, an unfortunate delusion of hers brought upon by the hardships of their journey.

They had brought the little girl along just in case they could use her for bargaining, or just so she could bring them the one that spoke for the entire village. They had no need for translators, not anymore. The commanders of the company, in particular, had taken some time before embarking on their quest to learn the language of the commoners in this region. They were still a fair bit rough around the edges, but the years had made it essential that they knew how to communicate. Nevertheless, the first thing that they had to do was figure out who to talk to, as communication was useless without anyone to communicate with. As it stood, however, there was absolutely no indication that anyone was willing to talk. There was a wind blowing, causing snowdrifts to billow into the air every so often, sometimes even going so far as to carry it into the roofs of some of the houses. The place seemed eerily empty, but the small party, Gwen, Caedh, Liana, and a dozen other soldiers, could feel that they were being watched through the tightly-closed shutters of the homes lining the road.

“Is this where you came from?” asked Gwen, eyes warily scanning the closed windows and doors for any sign of movement or hostility. Seeing nothing but the eerily quiet and motionless facades of the village, she turned to the little girl, expectant of a reply, but got nothing, only a steely-eyed glare that bespoke of an unwillingness to cooperate with her in particular. The child was belligerent, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected as the little girl, unworldly powers as she might possess, was still exactly that: a little girl. She sighed and looked pointedly at the watchman who wilted momentarily from the look, but then returned it with the same steely-eyed glare as the little girl, albeit less forcefully. When she frowned, he relented and turned to Liana, repeating the same question to her. The child looked at Gwen for a moment, narrowed her eyes, then nodded. “Could you get whoever speaks for the town to come and join us?” she asked, trying to be as pleasant as possible with the little girl. She _was_ trying her best to put aside her feelings. As real as the threat the little girl had made back when she first came into their camp had seemed to Gwen, she had to remember that she was just a child and probably did not entirely mean it. If anything, though, a part of her was feeling more scared for Elian, especially after what the little girl had just demonstrated earlier during the battle against the blademanes.

Liana dismounted from Caedh’s horse and walked right for a particular house, nondescript to Gwen’s company, but one that the little girl seemed to know by heart. It took quite a while from the time the child entered the homestead to the time she emerged with a middle-aged man followed by a younger man who seemed to be the other’s son. Gwen dismounted from her horse, followed by Caedh and the rest of the men she had brought with her. In a gesture of good faith common in these lands, they moved forward as one towards the party they were about to bargain with. “May the suns shine upon you” said Gwen politely, grinding her teeth inwardly at the formality. She rested a hand on her hip, just above the hilt of the claymore that dangled down by the side of her leg. The two men regarded her with a wary glance, eyes quickly traveling to upwards, presumably to her hair, the colour of which she had come to know was sometimes grounds for being demonized by the locals. “I pray you can help us this… fine day” she said, wincing. The day wasn’t particularly fine, but it was all a part of the pleasantries. She reminded herself that she needed to act diplomatically. She’d promised Bran she would.

“We no longer welcome your kind here” said the old man, seemingly much to the chagrin of the younger one who had taken notice of the claymore that Gwen possessed. Clearly the progeny, in this case, was much more wise than his progenitor. It is never wise to antagonize the armed if one does not possess arms himself. It was a bit of common sense that the elder was violating in pretty much the worst possible way. Liana pulled at the hem of the man’s clothing but the elder pushed her away with a huff, as though annoyed that the little girl had managed to convince him to leave his home and talk to the soldiers waiting outside. “You are murderers. Especially that boy that was here not too long ago” he said. Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise, momentarily happy for the confirmation that they were indeed close on the heels of their prince. “Should’ve killed him when we had the chance. What is your business in our little hamlet?”

The threat made anger bubble in the pit of Gwen’s stomach, and she balled her free hand into a fist at her side, while the other grabbed the hilt of the claymore. “We need supplies. Our camp was attacked by blademanes and many of our men are injured. We only need bandages and food. Whatever you can spare would be appreciated. We are willing to pay in silver.” Gwen rambled, the words just spilling out of her mouth in a less-than-graceful manner. There was a tinge of desperation that coloured her words. She was just about prepared to do anything to help her friend. She was beginning to understand why Bran had acted in the manner that he did when the five men had gone missing the other night. They were his friends, very dear to his heart. She felt frantic, not entirely sure what to do to save her friend. It was then that she realized she was feeling the very same thing that Bran must have felt at the time. She felt quite a fool for having snapped at him that evening in such a hostile manner. She shook her head, an action that seemed to puzzle the two men that were observing her. She hoped it would come across as genuine distress.

The young man was about to speak when the old man opened his mouth and sealed the fate of their small village. “No” he said, holding out an arm to prevent the young man behind him from doing anything to stop him. “No. Our village needs whatever it has. We cannot spare you anything. You brought this winter storm here, and you very likely brought the wrath of the suns with it. That is why you were assaulted by those… abominations. Your storm has made our crops fail. Whatever we have, we need to survive through the next few months. You called this upon yourselves. Don’t look to us for help. We have none to offer you.” The old man shoved Liana away, making the girl fall on her rump with a hurt look on her face. The old man turned and grabbed his son, intending to drag the young man back to their little hovel.

It was evident that the young man wanted nothing to do with his father’s vendetta against the soldiers that had come to their village. He wrenched his arm from his father’s grip and ran towards Gwen who drew her sword, expecting an attack. Instead, the young man fell to his knees before her and asked for mercy. He was not stupid enough to let pride stand in the way of survival. He and his village were hardy people, and the old man was wrong. They would survive the coming months. They always had. They did not need everything, and they had help to spare. The old man claimed that the wrath of the suns was directed at Gwen’s company, but the young man knew that by the teachings of the sun priests, that it was those who refused to help those in direst need that were abominable in the eyes of their gods. Gwen grabbed the young man by the arm and told him, firmly, “You’re coming back to camp with us.” There was an anger in her veins that had been sparked by the old man’s threat and denial of help. Bran had left alone, uncaring of the danger to look for his friends. Gwen was about to do something far more drastic. “Kill them all. They don’t want to give us what we need. We will _take_ it” she snarled.

There was a broken sob from the young man who could only watch helplessly as his father was run through with a sword before anyone could say anything to the contrary of the woman’s command. He tore his eyes away, unwilling to see any of the others be slaughtered like lambs. He’d known them all his life, befriended some of them, and now they were going to meet their end because of his father’s foolishness. Instead he fell back to his knees, face buried in the palms of his hands, weeping inconsolably for the fate of his village. Caedh watched nearby, impassive. He did not agree with what was being done, but he agreed that they needed to take what they needed. It was for Bran, he reassured himself, but he did not wish to have any blood on his hands. Liana was glaring at Gwen with such fury that the older woman felt herself wilt for a moment before she realized that she was being stared down by a child barely half her height. She shook her head and strode to a nearby house. She kicked the door in, and, unbidden, entered. There seemed to be no one inside. A single soft footstep was all the warning she got as a man who couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than herself suddenly found himself impaled on her claymore. The chair he’d held over his head to try and knock the commander out falling and splintering on the floor.

From behind her she heard the sound of feet running towards her, and felt a knife being jammed into her thigh. She roared in pain and swung the claymore in a large arc that ended up decapitating the child that had done that to her. The mother was nearby, screaming in terror. She picked up a nearby clay pot and threw it at the commander who blocked it easily, making it shatter with her blade as she leaned down to pull out the knife. She examined the damn thing. It was of shoddy make and had only managed to pierce her flesh because of a chink in her armour. She ran at the woman and impaled her too, leaving her to fall to the floor, blood gurgling out of her mouth as she did. There was a small part of her that felt remorse, but there was another part that relished in what she was doing. It was catharsis for the anger she felt at the threat the old man had made.

She looked around, noting that there were a few things they could use in the house before dashing out to see a woman being dragged into the square by two of her men. Liana was visibly upset and was yelling at them to stop. Those men were not from her original company. They were from the group that the king had insisted they take with them. They slit the woman’s throat in front of the little girl, taking an obscene glee in seeing the look of horror she had on her face. “NO!!” screamed the child. The two men were not long for this world as simultaneously, the blood in their veins froze instantly and they were impaled on spikes of ice.

Another woman screamed nearby as she was silenced by another of the men that did not belong to Gwen’s original troop. He also quickly met his end at Liana’s fury. Unwilling to let any more of her men die, twisted as they might have been, the commander sprinted as best as she could with her bleeding thigh towards the little girl and rammed the hilt of her sword in the back of the child’s neck, knocking her out cold in one strike. Caedh frowned at Gwen, but said nothing, instead picking up the little girl and slinging her over his saddle. He really did not approve of the commander’s methods, but if it was what was going to help Bran, he had very little to complain about. He didn’t know these people. They hadn’t saved him from Gython. They hadn’t offered him a chance for redemption.

It took a long while before the gruesome task was done, Gwen not being satisfied until every human being in the village save for the young man that had tried to save the entire place, was either dead or dying. She then gave the command to sack the houses and take whatever the soldiers deemed necessary. They had a number of saddlebags, but there were also packs for the rest that they would have to carry on their own. There were farm animals, too, but they knew that they could only keep the beasts for so long before butchering them. In truth, that was the better way to keep the creatures. They would not have to feed the animals, and the bitter cold that accompanied their small group of soldiers was enough to preserve the meat for a decent amount of time. When everything that could be carried was packed away, and every animal that could be led away had a lead, the group began the trek back to camp. The town was a poor one, but they had found a decent amount of things they could use. They would be back for whatever they couldn’t carry. It was senseless to allow what was left behind to just rot. No one would be using any of it now.

\----------

It had been three days since their romantic tryst that went wrong at the worst possible time only to be fixed at just the right moment for everything to fall together in a wonderful manner. Neither of the two boys had been as happy as they were since that day, but the looming day of Elian’s inevitable departure was a bit of a shadow over their happiness. Jack still wished the blond would stay, but he understood the young prince’s reasons for wanting to pursue his redemption and the full catharsis of all the negative emotions that were festering in his heart. Nevertheless, for the first time in his life, he was fully happy, fully satisfied. The farmstead that had seemed to be a prison to him so long ago now felt like an actual home, a reminder of the budding love he’d found and fostered with one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. He was leaning against the barn wall, watching Elian go through his sword forms. The young prince had insisted on doing more drills in the way of the blade as he would need it if he planned on going back to his homeland.

Jack, while he wasn’t any sort of an expert on the matter, had seen a marked improvement in the blond’s grace and the flow of his forms. It almost seemed as though the fluid movements, the almost dance-like changing of one form to the next, was as natural to the blond as breathing. He should not have expected any less from the son of a ruthless warrior, who, despite all his shortcomings seemed to have done one thing, and that one thing alone, well. He’d managed to make his son into a formidable warrior like himself. For all his grace and palpable prowess, though, Elian still didn’t quite like the innate violence of the way of the blade. He’d confessed as much to Jack two nights ago, as they lay beside each other awash in orgasmic bliss. Jack had at first felt a fair bit sheepish making love on his parents’ bed, but Elian pointed out that if the farmboy wanted to couple, they could not do it on Jack’s narrow rickety bed as it was likely to collapse under the weight of two people. In any case, as with his ice, Elian failed to see his skill with the sword as a beautiful thing, instead thinking it a necessary evil in order to protect himself.

In his mind’s eye, Jack envisioned Elian making the sword forms, fighting in the middle of a band of bandits in order to protect an innocent little girl. The nobility in the cause was, for Jack, immensely attractive, and he found his heart fluttering as, in his mind’s eye, he saw Elian stab one of the bandits that got too close to the little girl through the chest. The whole thing was getting him riled up and he felt a familiar heat rise to his face in response to the scenario in his head. “Jack…?” The partly-scared sound jarred him out of his reverie, and he looked at Elian who had stopped doing his forms. The farmboy had to rub his eyes three times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing and not just hallucinating. Sure enough, Elian was surrounded by a transparent group of thugs outlined in frost, a little girl crouching behind her. “What did you do?” asked the blond, eyeing the figures of frost warily.

“I don’t know…” said Jack, summoning the wind to bring him to his feet. He’d gotten a fair bit lazier with getting up and moving around ever since he’d learned how to call upon the wind whenever he needed it, but it was merely a matter of convenience. He did like flying on his side as Elian walked beside him just to taunt the blond who still hadn’t been able to master the ability. Whatever the case, he used the wind to drift closer to Elian, staff at the ready. “Whatever it was, I think we should fight!” he said, the elation evident in his voice. He’d always wanted to beat up a few thugs. There was an incredulous look on Elian’s face, but Jack just shrugged and almost instantly, the men took out blades, swords, maces and axes. They were all made from frost, but they _did_ look wickedly sharp. Jack tossed a snowball at Elian’s face before letting out a whoop and decapitating one of the frost bandits with a single motion of his shepherd’s crook. “Come on, Elian! Have a little fun!” he said, jabbing another in the stomach with the butt of his staff. There were more forming around them, and, Jack surmised, they would soon be in the middle of a throng of frosted enemies.

The battle was long and tiring, but there was a certain air of romance about the entire ordeal that neither young man could shake. Fighting alongside each other seemed to be the right thing to do, and in truth, felt just… _natural_. Jack was having entirely too much fun decapitating frost-bandits, as he’d taken to calling them, with the crook of his staff. Naturally, Elian, finally giving in to the entire fiasco and actually allowing himself to enjoy the spirit of the exercise, started doing the same with his sword. It ended up becoming a competition between the two young men to see who could decapitate the most soldiers. There was something about the way that Jack moved with such mastery over his quarterstaff that not only made Elian’s heart flutter, but also made him question the true history of his parents. He was sure Jack believed their story and didn’t know more than that, but he also felt as though there was more to the farmers that had raised the lost child than even Jack himself knew. Whatever it was, Jack seemed to have the skill to rival the best apprentices of the masters of the quarterstaff.

The farmboy, on the other hand, was not only feeling the heat in his arms from the exertion, he was also feeling a heat in his face and groin from watching Elian move up close. The young self-exiled prince was truly amazing in how he moved, transitioning from one form to the next so smoothly it almost seemed to all blend into one long form. In the beginning, Jack was concerned that given the tight space they were fighting in, that they would end up injuring each other or otherwise getting tangled up. That was not the case, however, and instead, they moved together as though they had been fighting with each other for their entire lives, every movement was made without the other being in the way, and every unexpected attack on one was blocked by the other. Glaise even joined in on the fun at some point, biting off the legs on more than a few bandits and ruining Jack’s decapitation counts. At the brink of exhaustion, both young men threw down their weapons and the frosty apparitions vanished into the air in a cloud of fine ice crystals. Jack started laughing, Elian following his example not far behind him.

It had been a lot of fun, and they’d discovered another thing about their odd relationship. It was becoming more and more difficult for both young men to imagine how they’d survived all those years before meeting the other. They were happy, for the time being, but they were not stupid. There was one thing that life had taught the both of them, Elian directly, and Jack through his fathers. It was that happiness was not eternal, and that soon enough, tragedy would strike. They were, however, entirely bent on enjoying the happiness that they had for the time being. Jack leaned in and placed a kiss on Elian’s lips, ignoring the sheen of sweat on both of their bodies. The blond sighed, tired but satisfied, and wrapped his arms around the blond as they sat in the lush green grass. The brass disc of the sun was happily shining down upon them, and there was a soft breeze that caressed their faces in much the same way they each held the other’s cheeks in their hands. It was in that moment that Jack remembered something important, something quite dear to his heart that he’d lost sight of in the last few days of happiness. He abruptly pulled away, eyes wide with the epiphany, a smile stretching from ear to ear on his face. Elian wasn’t sure what to make of his lover’s expression. “Jack?”

“Wait here” said the farmboy as he ran back into the farmhouse, looking for something in particular that he’d discovered the night he first saw Elian. He very nearly overturned the entire living room looking for the damn thing, only to realize as he looked at the hearth, that he’d hidden it where it probably had been hidden all along: an alcove in the fireplace concealed by a loose stone. It didn’t take very long for him to find the intricate box again. There was a momentary apprehension in his heart as he ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the lid. This was one of the few remaining things that his parents had left behind. Indeed, it was only this one thing that they specifically addressed to him. He flipped open the lid, slowly re-read the letter that told him to save opening the smaller box for a happier time, and picked up the tiny, but equally intricate box that was in there. He wiped off the tear at the memories of his parents, and instead focused on smiling, and the memories that he and Elian were building. He opened the smaller box. There was only a tiny slip of parchment within, the handwriting different from Kyle’s slanting script. This was the scrawl of his other father, Nyko. The words within made his heart leap from his chest. _“Jack, to your love and eternal happiness…”_

The farmboy couldn’t help the tears that streamed down his cheeks upon reading those words, emotions overcoming whatever walls he’d built to prevent himself from being hurt by Nyko’s constant lack of approval for everything he did. He’d never thought he would read such seemingly heartfelt words from his father, and yet here they were, clear as day. He lifted the parchment, surprised when he brought it to his nose that it still carried the familiar scent of Nyko and Kyle, the smell that had comforted him in his early childhood, whenever he had nightmares and he found his way into their bed. It was a manly musk, but at the same time, it held a sweetness that was just… different. He sighed, inhaling deeply, before he looked again into the small box. It held two fairly large rings — his fathers were larger than him by far — made of a metal that the farmboy had never seen, let alone held in his hands. It was not gold, nor was it silver. It was a metal that shone even in the minimal light that it received being in Jack’s shadow as he leaned over the box. There were tiny runes carved into the objects, far too small for him to read. The rings both held two stones on opposite sides, one yellow like the sun, the other, surprisingly, blue like Elian’s eyes.

When he eased the rings from the velvet of the small box, he found another small note tucked into the bottom of the box. _“Your father and I were not always together. He had to leave, sometimes, to do something he never quite told me… I trusted him. Even so, he gave me one of these rings. He wore the other. He said it was an heirloom from his family, the only thing he was given when he was disowned by his own mother. These were our promise rings. Something to remind me that he would always come back for me. He always did. Sometimes it took a long time, but he always did. I hope you find someone that will swear the same thing for you. Nothing would make me happier.”_ This note was from Kyle. That much he knew from the handwriting. It was perfect. In truth, it was beyond perfect. It almost seemed like it was divine providence. Jack slipped the ring onto his hand. The band of metal immediately shrank to make a perfect fit around his finger. The farmboy then instantly felt the heat that had left him when he moved away from Elian return. He gasped, wondering what it meant. He tried to summon the wind but found that he couldn’t. He tried to summon ice, and again, found that he couldn’t. He took a closer look at the skin of his hand. It was the pink of normal human flesh again. There was a smile that crept across his face, and he released an exhilarated whoop. He twisted the ring on his hand so that it was the blue stone that was on top. Instantly, the wind that he had tried to summon slammed him into the wall of the house.

The ruckus made Elian rise from where he was sitting and look curiously in the direction Jack had gone. Then, the sky became dark. The blond looked up quizzically, not knowing where the suddenly-heavy-with-rain clouds rolled in from. They had not been anywhere in the horizon last time he’d checked. He shrugged and started walking back towards the farmstead to see for himself what the farmboy was up to. Just as he took his first step, Jack ran out of the farmhouse, a different air about him. It was then that Elian realized that the farmboy’s hair was brown again. His eyes widened, wondering what had happened in there. “Elian!” shouted the now-brunet farmboy, raising his fist and shaking it in the air as he ran towards the blond. “Elian!” he said again, laughing as he stumbled forwards, almost landing on his face. Just as he came to a stop before his lover, Jack felt a thick drop of water hit his face. He looked up. Then, the heavens decided to open up. The rain came down heavy. It was a downpour to rival any spring rain. It was brilliant.

Before Elian could say anything, Jack opened his mouth to speak. “Do you swear you will come back for me when you can?” asked the farmboy who was still inexplicably back to his ice-less self in Elian’s eyes. “Elian?” Jack asked, taking a step backwards, eyes wide at the surprised expression on the blond’s face. “Do you swear you will come back for me?”

Elian coughed, clearing his throat. “Yes… By the old g—” Elian choked on his words. There was a lump in his throat, put there by an inexplicable happiness that the curse had been lifted from Jack. No one deserved to have to deal with the ice. “Yes…” He said, firmer, this time. “I swear it by the gods of the trees and the gods of the sky.”

Jack’s fear melted away and he smiled as well. He moved closer to Elian and grabbed the blond’s hand. “Then let this be a reminder of your vow…” said the farmboy, sliding the ring onto Elian’s ring finger. “We _will_ find each other, no matter what…” breathed Jack, almost unable to speak through the swell in his chest. He was happy. He was incredibly pleased. The abysmal downpour did not bother him one bit. At that moment, the only thing that mattered was the man in front of him, to whom he’d given his entire heart to. The blond lifted his hand, examining the ring as it shrank to fit him in just the right way. He almost lost himself to the depth of the yellow gemstone set into it, but something else drew his gaze away. His skin was losing the pallor that it had borne his entire life, healthy pinkish skin much like his brother’s replacing it. The transformation traveled down his arm faster than he could process and soon enough, he heard Jack’s gasp, as everything about him became less pale. His hair, in particular, that had looked like faded gold, suddenly took on a burnished gleam that was just… magical.

“What is this, Jack?” asked Elian, reaching deep within him for his ice, only to find it blocked by something he could not entirely comprehend. There was a smile on his face, a relief that there was something that had finally managed to break his curse. He knew the ice was still there, so he still bore its burden, but the ring on his finger promised that he would have control over it so long as it was worn. He couldn’t help the tears that then decided to stream down his face, nigh indistinguishable from the rivulets of rain that were also flowing down his cheeks. “Thank you…” he said, gratitude palpable in his words. “Where did you find this…?”

Jack just smiled and twisted the ring on Elian’s finger so that the blue gem was on top once more, and the blond felt the ice instantly rush back into his being. He stared at the ring, surprised, awed, and confused at how such a magical artefact had managed to make its way into the hands of an otherwise nondescript farmboy. “I… My parents left me a box… They told me not to open it until I was happy. Today I did. These were inside” said Jack, raising his hand and showing Elian the twin ring that was around his finger. “I don’t know where they came from… My father only said that it was passed down to him by his mother…” He smiled, placed his hands on the blond’s hips and pulled him closer. “I love you…”

Elian sighed, giving in to the contact and whispering in Jack’s ear “I love you, too…” as he twisted the ring and regained his long-lost normalcy. He grabbed the sides of the farmboy’s face, fingers toying with the locks of brown hair that graced the other man’s head, and kissed him with a passion that was unrivaled by the other kisses they’d shared up until that point. The pouring rain helped disguise the tears that were falling from both young men’s eyes, but for once, they weren’t tears shed from fear, or sadness, or loss.

These tears were for one thing, and one thing alone.

_Happiness._ __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I hope you liked that chapter. I know, the focus has shifted a bit away from Jack and Elian, but there really isn't much happening on their side of the world.
> 
> However, things are getting to a crescendo. Everything's about to be blown out of the water, and our poor lovable duo are in for the ride of their lives. Bran and Gwen are getting closer and... well... that doesn't necessarily spell good things for Jack's relationship with Elian.
> 
> Anyway! Here's a look into next week's chapter. :3. It's gonna be an interesting one. :D
> 
> _“This is knowledge given form, truth given flesh…” said the Grensyr, watching impassively as Kristoff’s eyes widened. The Mage straightened from where he had found himself crouching after the scream. It almost seemed too good to be true. “Should the Mage take this, all truth shall be his to know.” The blond was halfway tempted, but he was no fool, he remembered what the Grensyr had said. There would be a price to pay. For all knowledge, for all truths, Kristoff knew that the price would be a hefty one. “The Mage is right. Should he take this knowledge. His to pay is the ultimate price.”_


	21. The Festered Wound

The blond was settled in for the night, leaning on his reindeer and idly strumming his lute as he waited for sleep to overcome him at some point. There was a small campfire crackling merrily nearby, casting dancing yellow, red, and orange light with a menagerie of shadows as accompaniment through the trees. The smoke drifted steadily skyward in a slightly bent column, owing to the breeze that was stirring the foliage. It was as Kristoff watched the cloud of smoke lazily rising towards the sky that he fiddled with his lute, calling forth random strains of music that only just barely formed a cohesive melody. His mind was elsewhere, treading unbidden into old memories of times long gone and times that would never again come, wandering unwillingly into thoughts of one man in particular: Daemon. The tryst with the sun priest had taught him one important thing above all else, and that was that there were some memories better laid to rest, never again to be disturbed. That coupling, as dubious as the consent had been, brought back memories of a better time, when they were not as mired in conflict as they were today. In truth, it had brought back not only memories, but feelings that the blond had thought he’d buried a long time ago.

Regardless, he was snapped out of his rumination by a rustling in the forest nearby. He sat up, Sven perking up at the exact same time. The lute was abandoned nearby as he drew out from a fold in his hat that had been magically enchanted to hold the thing, an Yðgrnng, a dagger made of glass forged from a Spark’s fire and cooled in winter air. It was small, barely four inches in length, but it was incredibly sharp and strong. Runes were carved into its edges and inset with alternating gold and silver foil. The handle was made of wraithbone, which was dark under normal conditions, or when it was not being held by a person with arcane abilities. When one such person with a proclivity for the arcane did hold the hilt of the dagger, it came alive with wisps of purple, flecks of shining blue and what seemed to be pinpricks of starlight moving across its surface and into its heart. It also became translucent when it was held by a person of magical abilities, or when it was in the presence of immense power. It quickly became apparent to Kristoff, who was holding the blade and not the hilt, that there was a formidable power nearby, as the wraithbone was alive.

He shifted the weapon in his hand to a proper grip and held out the blade. Warily, he stood, facing the direction from where the rustling was coming from. There was a tension in his shoulders, and it reflected in how the blade trembled ever so slightly in his hands. The dagger might have been mostly meant for ceremonial purposes, but it was still practical in one on one combat. Folklore painted the Yðgrnng and other weapons crafted like it as soulstealers, capable of ripping the soul from a living body and delivering an instantaneous death with one cut. The reality, Kristoff had discovered, was not quite as dramatic. In truth, the weapon only made it so that no wound, no ailment, no injury of anyone whose blood was on its glass blade would heal so long as the blood was not cleaned off of the blade. It was, in many ways, a poisonous weapon that carried no poison. He’d successfully used the object to assassinate important targets over the years, and very few actually knew what it was. Any who did, knew that there was no way to reverse the weapon’s effects other than to clean it of blood.

In truth, it was the Order that perpetuated much of the folklore about the weapon, stamping out the stories that bore more accurate representations of it and those of its kind. In many stories, the Yðgrnng had a blade of sharpest steel that glowed brightly in the moonlight. No one outside the order ever suspected the weapon as anything more than a ceremonial dagger. “Show yourself!” demanded the Mage, fully expecting an assault of arcane energies to blast through the trees in an attempt to smite him. No such thing happened. Instead, the rustling continued. Kristoff steadied his hand and walked closer to where the rustling was coming from. Before he could move in to attack, a stranger appeared from the depths of the wood. The first thing that the Mage noticed was the object that covered the man’s eyes. It seemed to be a blindfold of woven vines and leaves and roots that shifted and writhed as though it was alive. The strangest part of the object was how it seemed to flow into the man’s skull, almost as though there were no eyes, merely empty eye-sockets. The next thing that Kristoff noticed was that the man was missing one ear, while the other seemed to only barely be hanging on. “Who… What are you?”

The strange man waved one hand. His free one, Kristoff noted, as he finally examined the rest of the stranger. The man was leaning on a staff of intertwined branches, that, like the blindfold seemed to writhe and pulse as though it was still alive. The Mage could have sworn there was even a growing bulb on one of the branches, but it was quickly covered up and taken from his sight. “Irrelevant” said the man, but it took a moment for Kristoff to realize that the man had not moved his lips or opened his mouth. The voice did not, however, sound as though it came from within his mind. There was no telepathy happening. Whatever it was, it was violating all Kristoff had been taught of magic. Then again, even the Order, dedicated since its formation to the study of all that is arcane, knew very little of the extent of magic. There were many tomes in its many libraries that carried speculations of powers far more baffling than the fatechanging powers Kristoff possessed. It was almost as though the stranger was reading his mind, as the man limped forward and opened his mouth to reveal that there was no tongue with which he could speak. “What is, however, relevant, is this young Mage providence has seen fit to lay before this body.”

“I will answer nothing until you give me your _name_ , creature” said Kristoff, fully aware that names meant a lot to all arcane creatures, himself included. There was a reason he very rarely introduced himself with his true name, save for when he’d encountered Jack Frost, whom he knew had no reason to use his true name against him. The strangers lips twisted into a smile at Kristoff’s aggression. It was not a smile of malice, nor was it, really, one of arrogance. In truth, the smile seemed like genuine amusement at the Mage’s gall to challenge someone whose arcane strength was enough to bring the wraithbone to life from so far away. It was already evident who, between the two of them, would absolutely destroy the other.

It took a moment to dawn on Kristoff that the stranger knew what he was, and to be so confident in the face of a power as terrifying as his own, the Mage had to consider for a moment if it was wise to antagonize the other man. Surely, the stranger would know that with his magecraft everything was accessible, even his instant death. This fact did not seem to faze the blind, half-deaf, mute, limping man that had just casually strolled into his camp. He moved forward threateningly with his blade. “You know this blade’s poison. None can survive it. Tell me your name, or I will strike” he said, trying to sound confident, but the stranger just waved his hand, and the clear glass turned black. In contrast, the precious metal set into the blade became pure white.

“Ah. A wraithblade!” came the disembodied voice, amusement plain in its almost-melodic strains. “These eyes have not seen one in so long. How provident that an important man such as Kristoff would already have the weapon he requires for his greatest duty.” A chuckle followed the seemingly prophetic, and altogether too-aloof for Kristoff’s comfort, words. The man made a gesture and the Mage found himself being gently drawn backwards and settled into where he had been sitting before, just beside Sven who was looking at the stranger with a reverence that not even Kristoff’s largest carrot-finds had managed to elicit from him. “Sit” said the stranger afterwards, taking a seat opposite the mage across the campfire. “No weapon such as that will work against this body. The power of the Yðgrnng and that which occupies this shell come from the same place as your Magecraft, though, I suppose, important man as he may be, Kristoff knows not whence they do.”

A kind smile replaced the amusement on the stranger’s expression, benevolent despite its strangeness, its alien, eldritch nature. “Come, Mage, I know Kristoff wishes to dispense mutilation upon this shell.” The creature hooked its long bony fingers towards itself, and Kristoff drifted across the forest floor, coming to a halt just beside the stranger. “He may try.” The stranger stretched out an arm nearly as bony as his fingers towards Kristoff, wrist facing upwards. The skin seemed to be paper-thin, almost translucent in some places. The strangest thing was that there seemed to be no veins running underneath the flesh. Hesitantly, Kristoff dragged the blade of the glass dagger against the stranger’s skin, but it did not even seem to connect at all. The Mage _felt_ the blade drag across skin, but where he’d seen it slice through flesh with just the slightest tap, this time, it left not a single mark instead. “He may try another weapon. One that comes not from the other realm.”

Kristoff reached into his hat again and pulled out a heavy steel hunting knife. That blade cut through the thin flesh easily, but instead of blood, something akin to cum, or sap, oozed out. The only reason Kristoff even thought to compare the substance to cum was because his addled brain, confused and baffled by what was happening, had suddenly elected to return to thoughts of Daemon and their coupling. A fact that did not seem to escape the stranger, who then chuckled. Nevertheless, the sap-like substance clung to the honed edge of the blade, and in fact almost seemed to spread all across it. It bubbled, and fizzed, and filled the clearing with a metallic scent. When it had settled down, it slowly evaporated, revealing the once-razor sharp blade of the hunting knife turned dull as though it had been used without end for the past decade without so much as seeing a whetstone. The mage ran his finger across the blade, surprised that it did not cut him, and that the hunting knife almost seemed… _smooth_ , dull, instead of sharp. “He should return to sitting. It suits him” said the stranger with a chuckle, and Kristoff felt himself sliding back towards Sven.

“Since he finds the matter of names of great import, I grant Kristoff a name for this existence. This shell, this existence has no true name, but there are many that have given it _a_ name. This I give him. Call this Grensyr” said the disembodied voice that Kristoff still could not pinpoint the source of. Wherever the stranger was speaking from, it always seemed as though the voice emanated from the man that was sitting across from him, which was impossible, considering how the Grensyr’s mouth never moved. “This existence speaks through the forest. It sees through the forest. It feels through the forest. It hears through the forest. It tastes through the forest. This shell and the forest are as one. And this forest and all others in this realm and all other realms are as one. The Grensyr sees all, as does Yggdrasil.”

“Why are you here?” asked Kristoff, a part of him squirming in discomfort at the mere presence of the arcane creature before him. It was easy enough to mistake as human, what with its arms, legs, and face. He was sure that whatever it was, whether it had been human once, it was definitely no longer that. Grensyr. He’d not heard the name before. He had to wonder which people had given this ‘existence’ as it seemed to prefer to call itself, the name Grensyr. Nevertheless, if there existed a creature like the Grensyr of such power as to see through all the realms, it begged the question why the creature had chosen such an inauspicious time and such an inauspicious person to manifest itself to. “Why a mage, in this lonely corner of the world?”

“The Mage discounts himself so easily. This existence can see why its old self so quickly decried himself when confronted with power beyond imagining.” The Grensyr smiled, revealing a row of white teeth that just seemed… _off._ They had a pearlescent sheen to them, an iridescence that rolled despite remaining motionless. It was both enchanting and discomfiting, a quality that even the creature’s teeth shared with the rest of itself. “The Grensyr has long since abandoned the notion of flattery, but it appreciates the kind thoughts” said the creature, a laugh echoing through the clearing. “But Kristoff is far more than just a Mage. He shall play a part soon enough. He fails to realize that Magecraft is how this realm gives itself free will. There is a reason that his kind are called _Fatechangers_ by some. Only he, and those whose lives his touches, can truly choose freely, unbound by the fetters of fate. Though often, the Cosmos fails to realize that fate is meant to help it, and though choice may seem its best chance, it is best if free will chooses to let fate transpire.”

“I still don’t understand” said Kristoff, puzzled — no, baffled — by what was said, and why it was he that was chosen. “Surely, the Coldsnap or the Radiance are better off knowing of whatever it is you wish me to know. They are far more powerful than I, capable of far greater things. You claim that those whose lives mine touches can truly choose freely, then surely, the young prince and the farmboy with him are more worthy of this knowledge than me. Kristoff breathed deeply, trying to steady himself, and trying to rein in the rapid gallop of his heart. The mere fact that he was not pressing questions on the matter of just what the Grensyr was, where its power came from, was strange. However, he was more interested in the why of the Grensyr’s visitation, unable to fathom the reasons behind such a powerful creature choosing to visit him, a mere player in the grand game that had been going on between the Order and the Heliades for centuries. Sure, he had one of the most terrifying powers, one of the most important ones, as the Grensyr had made clear, but there were others far greater than him whom he believed to deserve this knowledge far more than himself.

“The Mage seems to know very little of what he thinks he knows” said the Grensyr, humour filtering through its voice. “Yes, young Elian Calland and Jack Frost are capable of far more than even he thinks, but they have their role, and Kristoff has his. He forgets. This existence sees all. Though his fatechanging may not allow this shell to see his true destiny for it does not exist, the cosmos allows the Grensyr to peer into what would have been had the Mage not had his power. This existence can see destiny if he were to follow it.” The Grensyr grimaced, but waved his hand anyway, and the fire and the smoke began to display images in rapid succession that Kristoff’s mere mortal eyes were unable to catch and piece together in any meaningful manner. It was still flickering from one scene to the next, with images vastly different from each other seeming to appear one after the other, when the Grensyr began to speak again. “The Mage, by destiny’s grace, is pursuing the wrong half of creation…” intoned the creature, showing images of Daemon, Elian and Jack through the fire that had stopped flickering between apparitions.

Given the words that the Grensyr used and the images that he showed in the flames, Kristoff assumed that the creature was talking about his sexuality, which he found strange considering he did not really need any more convincing that the creature’s claims were legitimate. Nevertheless, his concerns were met by a lighthearted laugh from the Grensyr, and a slight shaking of its head from side to side. Kristoff was beginning to feel quite stupid in the face of such greatness. “Kristoff thinks too much of worldly things. He must see things for what they are and not what they seem” The Grensyr’s eyebrows knitted together as though he was concentrating on something, and finally, the images in the fire seemed to vanish. It wasn’t until he heard the clucking of a tongue, a sound that he would’ve considered impossible considering the Grensyr didn’t have a tongue, that he realized he was seeing what the image seemed to be and not what it was. The image in the fire was of fire. “Though he pursues the wrong half of creation, should he keep upon this path, he shall find his purpose.” A smile twisted the Grensyr’s lips as he continued to wave the hand that was not clasped around his staff. “His purpose is one that shall seal the fate of this world, and, in truth, this realm of existence.”

Kristoff’s eyes widened and he tried to crawl over to the fire to get a closer look at what was being displayed, but again, it was flickering, and he quickly found himself rooted fast to where he sat, unable to get any closer to the knowledge that was being dangled right before his eyes. “What do you mean seal the fate of this world? And what does my affection for men have to do with any of this?” The tongue-clucking again. This was driving him insane. There were so many questions bouncing around in his head, so many answers that he wanted, no, _needed_ to have. He knew that if he did not get them, he would likely lose much sleep over them. He was altogether terrified and vilified by the sheer breadth of the unknown that was now splayed before him. The Grensyr spoke of a role, a great role that would decide the fate of an entire realm of existence. There were many responsibilities thrust upon the Mage’s shoulders. The fulfillment of the Order’s directive, in particular, to bring together the Coldsnap and the Radiance so that the Ginunggagap could be studied more in depth under more controlled circumstances. He was tasked with finding, protecting, and bringing together the Manifest Shards of each Primal Power. Was that not his role?

“His perceived role is but petty human undertaking. Greater things await the Mage. Greater than any, even, of his esteemed order can imagine.” The words were becoming more forceful, and he could feel the sheer… _primal_ energy that was pulsing in the clearing. That was impossible. No one could harness primal energy save for the Shards. They had all tried. It was impossible. Even those who were granted powers by the Shards were given only a facsimile, limited by the laws that governed the arcane. Yet here he was, seated right across from someone who was doing the impossible, violating all that he had learned in all his years as a member of the Order. They were wrong on so many things, and yet, even he did not know just _how_ wrong they were. “These coming years, should he decide to take the path that destiny has laid out, shall be remembered for all eternity. These times may fade into memory, then history, then myth, then legend, but they shall be remembered all the same. He shall be the bringer of Divine Fire unto the world. He shall be the titan whose name shall be known forever more as _Prometheus_.” Kristoff trembled from the force of the words. They were not prophecy, they were merely informative. The Grensyr was not telling him what he would do, the Grensyr was telling him what would happen should he choose the right things. Frankly, the power to defy destiny was beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

The wind was beginning to gust, yet the fire remained steady, the only thing flickering were the images that rapidly flitted, far too quickly for the human mind to grasp or even begin to comprehend. Kristoff opened his mouth but found that voice and reason had abandoned him, as the power that was surging in the clearing continued to grow higher and higher. He was surprised that no one, either from the Order or from the Heliades had yet come to investigate what was going on. This much Primal Energy was not something that could just be ignored by anyone with even a smidgen of arcane training. Hell, this much Primal Energy could likely be felt all they way back in Vamara. “The Mage doubts this existence. He need not worry. He and this shell are shielded from all prying eyes.” A creature capable of masking even the most powerful of primal magics. Truly a formidable creature. “The celestial fire is both the lamp to lead the way in the dark, and the key to defeating the cancer within. The wound… the wound is but a manifestation of disease. It may be where the body, the world, has festered most, but the wound is not all there is. The wound is a sign. A sign that there is malaise lurking underneath.”

The Grensyr was surely referring to the Rift at the heart of Lycc. He was beginning to believe that the celestial fire that the creature was talking about was the Radiance. An amused laugh made him unsure of his assumption. It was either amused that he had cracked the riddle already, or amused that he had made the obvious, and incorrect choice. It was difficult to think, what with the sheer power that was crackling about them. He could almost _see_ the primal magic being worked swirling around the camp. It was so dense, so thick that it was beginning to manifest physically. The Grensyr smiled, amused that the Mage was beginning to see the currents of wild energy running rampant in the clearing as it continued to pry open the sealed-shut doors of the future. Kristoff tried to shake his head, but couldn’t. What did it mean that the Rift was just the surface? That it was just a manifestation? “The Rift is the only one he can see. There are other wounds, bleeding just as much, that are unseen to the mortal eye.” The Mage’s blood ran cold. There were other wounds? Bleeding just as much? Middleworlds creatures were coming into the mortal world elsewhere? They had been hearing of reports of blademanes as far south as the deserts of the Southerlands. They had all just assumed that they had escaped from Lycc and were somehow finding their way around the world. This revelation that they were simply coming into existence elsewhere was disturbing and had far-reaching consequences.

“Some wounds follow the Shards. The void calls to its children. The Mage’s progenitors were fools! They opened the path to the void, and the void is now calling for its spawn. It shall not rest until they are returned to it.” Kristoff shivered, the words so similar to what Daemon had been telling him not too long ago. They were, indeed, fools, for doing something without ample study all for the sake of a war effort. The past could not be changed, however, and Kristoff meant to use what had come from the disaster all those years ago to glean knowledge that could otherwise not be unearthed. “The past cannot, indeed, be changed. The Mage wishes for knowledge. This existence can give it. For a price” said the Grensyr almost off-handedly, as though the matter of knowledge that Kristoff wanted to possess was but a trivial matter. “Knowledge _is_ trivial, Mage. He must know that it is _sight_ that is all-important. But he and this existence stray from the matter at hand. _See_ , Mage, _see._ ”The image in the fire swirled into focus. It was the Rift at the heart of Lycc.

“The middleworlds are a dangerous place.” Entirely alien, strange, and unsettling landscapes flashed in the rift that the fire revealed. Kristoff had thought he would have to infiltrate the heart of the Heliades before he could ever set sight on the wound that the ancient war that had brought the great empire of Old Vamara to its knees. There were trees with leaves of fire and blood, gray skies that pulsed as though they were alive, pillars so black that the darkness seemed to suck Kristoff in, threatened to overwhelm him entirely. He shivered, shaking his head limited as his range of motion at the moment might have been. “The greatest evils exist in the Ginnunggagap. Four thousand years and three, it has been long enough for those evils to escape and enter this world. Yet the void bears also the seed of goodness. From it springs hope.”

The sudden departure from what had been said prior, was something that jarred Kristoff. However, it was entirely disturbing to think that the greatest of all evils had been sealed within the Ginnunggagap and that the foolishness of the Order all those years ago had allowed those malignances through to the mortal realm. The prospect was entirely horrifying, considering what the Grensyr had revealed not too long ago: that the Rift was not the only wound. He had to wonder where all those other evils had managed to find themselves. Almost as though to answer him, the Grensyr flicked his wrist and the fire showed the clearing where Kristoff and the creature were. Then, the image darted to Vamara, then to Lycc, then to lands he had never before seen. Lands probably far away from where they were. “He must now know that while they move, they slumber. These evils are not for the heroes of this age to face. In this age, the wound must first be healed. Then the heroes must allow the torch to pass to the next, and _they_ shall vanquish the malice that has found its way into the world.”

The words were a consolation, for some unfathomable reason. The last thing Kristoff needed was an even greater burden on his shoulders, after what he had already been told by the Grensyr. “There is one last thing that he must know.” Kristoff listened intently, this last bit was probably the most important out of all of them. There was an almost sad smile that appeared on the Grensyr’s face as soon as he thought those thoughts. It was disturbing, seeing what seemed to be genuine sorrow on the creature’s face. Almost as though the Grensyr didn’t really want to be telling Kristoff what he was about to tell the Mage. The blond braced himself, trying to steel himself for whatever words may come next. The few moments of silence that followed almost seemed like eternity. Kristoff wanted to scream. “He must know his heart is no longer of this world.” The image in the fire steadied and instead began to move. It almost seemed as though the Mage was actually watching events unfold before his very eyes. He looked up at the Grensyr from the fire, noting the single white teardrop that rolled down the creature’s face and down his chin before dripping onto the ground where a single flower bloomed. “No longer of this world” repeated the Grensyr. Kristoff fixed his eyes once more on the flickering flames, and the events unfolding in the apparition held within. Then he saw it. He screamed in agony, clutching his chest.

No. It wasn’t possible…

\----------

Few things, in the last couple of years, ever truly unsettled the sun priest and high-ranking officer of the Heliades, Daemon. There was something that happened quite recently, however, that served to do just that. Almost immediately following the Awakening of Rein, who was by now on his way to a ship sailing for Lycc, the Heliades had expected a surge of agents of the Order investigating the village where he had awakened into his powers. What the young man — relatively speaking, by mere mortal standards he was a bit of a geezer at this point — had not expected was that Kristoff would be one of them. His old lover and now-rival officer on the other side of the conflict, the golden-haired warlock had been quite a surprise, and, from what he remembered of the conversation that they had, quite a pleasant one at that. What did manage to unsettle the sun priest, however, was the fact that upon returning to the monastery, he’d discovered that he had been gone for much of the night, and that he had absolutely no recollection of the previous day save for a throbbing in his head, a pleasant ache in his thighs, and seed that he was fairly certain was Kristoff’s pouring out of his puffy, evidently-used hole.

How the warlock had managed to make him forget a tryst such as that, he was sure that it had not been a normal bout of lovemaking by any stretch of the imagination, he did not know. The marks left by rope on his wrists told him loud and clear that the blond had used his old domineering ways that had so aroused him to near-perpetual stiffness back in their days as acolytes of the Order. In truth, even the mere thought, the mere recollection of those old memories aroused Daemon enough that he was beginning to leak in his Cage. The damnable thing was in his way. All he wanted to do was whip his cock out and milk a sure-to-be generous load out of it. He wanted to get rid of the constant buzz of arousal that was ever-present in his mind. It had been for the last couple of days. The worry over what might have transpired during the course of their lovemaking, and the arousal that stemmed from his fervid belief that it had happened, was not a good combination and he found himself wishing he could turn either turn back time to see what had occurred or just rub one out so that one of the two competing emotions would settle down.

It had been three days, and after fruitless rounds of questioning about his whereabouts and what had happened — he genuinely had absolutely no recollection — and magical scrying to determine what kind of spell or potion had been used on him, he was starting to get frustrated. That was the only reason he had not been able to gain access to his organ. There was always someone on him, asking him, looking into his soul, his being, his magic. There were times when he wanted to slap someone across the room telling him what he had told all the other brothers that had come before, they would find nothing. There was no trace of magic, no trace of potion, no trace of any enchantment or curse or some other arcane _thing_ on him. He wanted to get out and investigate on his own because it was rapidly becoming evident that investigating himself was not going to solve anything. That, and he wanted to jerk off so badly, he was leaking just thinking about the end of all the futile interrogation. It finally came about and he was able to find some peace and quiet in his own quarters. He fished out the key for his Cage from the trunk beside his bed. He was one of the few brothers without an actual desk beside his bed. The desk in his room was in one corner by an arcane light. The trunk was there because he was often away on other duties elsewhere in the world. He was supposed to accompany Rein to Lycc, but the strange circumstances of his return had delayed him for that journey. He would follow soon enough.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t do anything about not being able to accompany Rein to Lycc at the moment, so instead, he fumbled with the key to unlock his Cage. There were some times when he sincerely regretted ever agreeing to taking a position that required him to be chaste most of the time as he quite liked the feeling of stroking his cock, but nevertheless, his was a position of power and it allowed him to do what he believed was right. It allowed him to try and help the Heliades undo the damage that the Order had wrought all those years ago. He sighed in relief when he heard the familiar click of the Cage unlocking. It had been _weeks_ since he’d last been able to spill his seed in the natural way. Cumming with the Cage offered absolutely no relief from the constant arousal that pursued him even when the prostate massager wasn’t attached. Gingerly, the sun priest unlatched the metal contraption from the leather belt that held it in place. He didn’t bother undoing the leather belt, he would have to put the damn thing back on soon enough anyway.

He ran his hands down into his crotch, fingers tentatively playing over the flesh of his manhood and his stones. They both seemed to be more shriveled than what a normal, mundane man would have, but that was to be expected of being in such long-term chastity. Nevertheless, he soon began to fondle his nuts, tenderly, as they were not used to being handled roughly in any way. Then his cock. He groaned as he ran his hand up and down the still-flaccid member. It had been so long. It almost seemed as if his manhood had forgotten what it was supposed to do. It always tried to get erect when it was in the cage, but it seemed as though when it was freed, it forgot to do just that. Nevertheless, he managed to coax himself to full mast. He didn’t bother with any oils to lubricate his hand as he stroked his member up and down. The pre-cum freely flowing from the tip was good enough. He moaned, tugging insistently on his cock. It didn’t take very long for him to be skirting the edge of orgasm. It _had_ after all been a while since he last came that way. He didn’t want to waste his seed on just a few strokes worth of masturbating so instead he mumbled a few words that prevented him from cumming but instead kept him on the edge of ultimate pleasure and relief. He inserted a finger into his ass, imagining, for a moment, that it was Kristoff instead of himself. All these years since they had been together, and still, he came the most, he came the best, when he thought about that blond dork that he had been with once.

He had three fingers pumping in and out of himself, hand a blur as it pumped up and down his shaft, when he started to speak the incantation that would undo the spell that kept him from cumming. It was at that very moment, though that he felt a sharp, incredibly painful burst of primal energy that felt quite distant, but at the same time, immensely powerful. It was thousands of orders of magnitude greater than what Rein had unleashed when he awakened his powers, and the implications terrified Daemon. His eyes shot open and he sat up in his bed. The sensation had been passing, but he knew it was not something that he had just been imagining. Groaning in frustration, he undid the incantation that prevented him from cumming, but instead of stroking himself to completion, he muttered another spell that instantly rendered him soft. It did not rid him of the aching need to spill, but it was necessary. He fastened the Cage back onto himself and rushed out of his room. He was half-expecting people to be running up and down the corridors, trying to figure out what had happened with the primal magic, but it almost seemed as though no one cared.

The sun priest frowned. _Had_ he just been hallucinating? No. He was certain beyond a doubt that it was real. It did not make any sense, however, why it seemed as though it was only he that had felt the surge. He shook his head, walking quickly down the corridor and down a nearby staircase. He heard fast footsteps behind him, almost as if there was someone running his way. Perhaps this brother had felt what he had felt. Sure enough, the man was running at him with eyes wide and wild. Just before he entered the stairwell, though, he tripped. Everything happened too fast for Daemon to react, and so he was knocked down from where he stood. He was bracing himself for the pain that was certain to come, but for some reason, he felt… sluggish. He opened his eyes that he’d squeezed shut in preparation, and noticed that there was a shimmer in the air right by him. Then, time began to flow normally and he found himself falling. There was excruciating pain far before he expected to hit the staircase, and then, the world went black.

The man that had been running looked up just in time to see Daemon fall. He was about to reach out his hand and apologize for his carelessness, but instead his eyes widened in horror and he screamed. As the sun priest fell backwards, Daemon met a layer of air that was shimmering for some unfathomable reason. Every part of him that touched that layer of air suddenly turned to ash and before long, all that was left of Daemon was his feet that would have been bleeding had heat somehow instantly cauterized them, and a cloud of ash that began to settle down the staircase. The Heliades’ feet rolled down the stairs, drawing a few strangled yells from the brothers that were climbing lower down.

\----------

Kristoff gasped and sputtered, unable to form any coherent words or thoughts at the sheer horror of the vision before him. What was it that killed Daemon? Could it be possible that he was still alive? No. The Grensyr had said he was no longer of this world, no longer of the world of the living. What was that shimmering in the air? A strange, invisible beast? His mind was a whirl of emotions and questions, tumultuous, tempestuous, unable to make any sense of what he had just seen. It had taken witnessing the demise of the sun priest for Kristoff to realize that he still held feelings deep within his heart for the other man, but they were meaningless now. He had even erased the memory of their last coupling from the mind of the Heliade. Where Daemon had been concerned, all that happened when they last met was an interesting conversation followed by a less-than-sweet parting. The Mage panted, trying to steady himself. He had not expected the emotions that tore through him, nor had he expected them to be so potent. He gasped, sucking in air. It felt as though the very breath had been knocked out of him.

The Grensyr waved its hand and the image in the fire dissolved and the flames returned to their normal state. The primal energy in the clearing ebbed ever so slowly, leaching into the very fabric of the world, vanishing into the thin air from whence it had come. “This existence knows very little of the workings of the human heart, but it was once human, and thus understands how it must feel for the Mage to have lost something so precious. This shell is sympathetic of your loss” said the Grensyr, something much akin to sympathy plain on its voice. Kristoff smiled gratefully, even through the tears that were blurring his vision. “There is one last thing that this existence must do for the Mage” Kristoff suddenly found himself able to move, and not too soon, because as soon as he did, he had to cover his ears to shield them from what followed. The Grensyr waved its hand and the world itself seemed to _scream_ in pain. It was a painful thing to hear, but unlike the Grensyr’s voice, this noise was something he heard not in his mind, nor his ears, but he heard it rattle through his entire being. Nevertheless, it looked as though a miniature rift appeared above the creature’s hand, depositing a pulsating green-white gem into its open palm.

“This is knowledge given form, truth given flesh…” said the Grensyr, watching impassively as Kristoff’s eyes widened. The Mage straightened from where he had found himself crouching after the scream. It almost seemed too good to be true. “Should the Mage take this, all truth shall be his to know.” The blond was halfway tempted, but he was no fool, he remembered what the Grensyr had said. There would be a price to pay. For all knowledge, for all truths, Kristoff knew that the price would be a hefty one. “The Mage is right. Should he take this knowledge. His to pay is the ultimate price.” Kristoff grimaced, he really wanted the gem that the Grensyr was holding, but he realized that if he were to indeed pay the ultimate price merely for taking truth and knowledge, he would never truly know what he had received. He would never be able to use it. Enjoy it. Peruse it. This was his ultimate temptation, the ultimate test of his resolve. Daemon had asked him if truly he was willing to sacrifice his life in order to attain what he professed he wanted to attain, the reason he remained with the Order that he knew had once been mistaken. He’d come to realize he had lied. He wanted knowledge, but he wanted to be alive to enjoy it.

Kristoff shook his head. He was unwilling to pay for the knowledge with his life. The Grensyr’s face split into a wide grin, and he said “The Mage is a fool. He must learn to see things for what they are, not what they seem” he said finally, ominously. All of a sudden, Kristoff was brought to his knees by another scream as the creature vanished. For the briefest of moments, the sky above him turned gray, and there appeared a moon in the sky, eclipsed with a shadow from where deepest purple lightning arced. Then the vision receded, and he was left alone in camp with Sven. He looked down and realized he was leaning up against his reindeer, idly strumming his lute, just as he had been before the Grensyr appeared. It was almost as if the creature had never showed up. However, the single flower that had bloomed from the single tear that fell from the creature’s face was still there, sitting opposite him, a reminder of what had transpired. He shivered as he stood and walked over to the other side of the fire. He plucked the delicate, beautiful little thing from the ground. It was a snowdrop. He folded the flower into his hat before curling up into a ball by Sven, heart pounding and mind heavy with all that had happened. Until sleep overtook him, though, there was only one thing he did. It was the one thing he never thought he would do after all that had been said and done.

He grieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter... And I hope you _remember_ everything that transpired here.
> 
> I would love to have your feedback concerning the Grensyr, though. It was meant to be a really unsettling character, the kind where he may seem unassuming at first, but the moment he starts to speak, it instantly becomes uncomfortable, but at the same time, awe-inspiring. Was I able to communicate that kind of feeling with the way he acted, with the way he talked?
> 
> Also. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter in general... And maybe some theories? ;3
> 
> In any case, here's next week's preview.
> 
> _“Sir, you said once that I was a soldier. That I am a soldier…” Bran nodded. He still believed that. A soldier through and through for not taking the easy way out of his torment under Gython, for instead enduring and, though the watchman might not know it himself, hoping to find a way out of his predicament. “With all due respect, Sir, I am not…”_


	22. Day of Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! This chapter was only edited in one pass in comparison to the two of my regular chapters. It's been difficult to find time to work on the story recently as I have been busy with preparation for University.
> 
> Once I get into the swing of things, everything should be good, though!

Bran was out cold for the next two days after Gwen and Caedh and Liana, the last, unfortunately, unconscious after the fiasco she caused, returned to camp. They had found all they needed, and a little more, though there were more things in the village that they had to return for. That was what Gwen supervised the following day, after making sure that her co-commander was well-bandaged and taken care of. Caedh was ever-present by the commander’s side, making sure that Bran had everything he wanted. Gwen wasn’t sure if she should ask the soldier what he was doing with Bran, but the woman was sure that something had happened over the night while she was asleep, and she was not entirely comfortable asking about it. Especially after learning that earlier that morning, Bran and Caedh had left camp with Gython, and the giant had not returned. In truth, the woman was glad that the giant was no longer with them, or at least missing, as Caedh refused to speak more than two words to anyone but Liana. Gython had been a thorn in the side of their command for the longest time, perhaps being rid of the man would slow down the unraveling of their company.

It was three days after the attack, when camp was being struck to move to the next area that they could settle for a short while, that Bran woke up. He reached up to scratch his nose with his left arm, feeling that it was still there. It wasn’t until he wrinkled his nose because it didn’t feel like the itch was going away that he realized he was now a one-armed freak of a soldier. The commander thrust his head back and groaned, he didn’t even have a stump to wiggle around. The blademane had cut his arm clean off. There was _no_ stump to speak of. He tried to sit up, but he felt a firm hand on his chest. It was then that he realized he was no longer in the physicians’ pavilion. He was riding in a wagon. A wagon? When had they gotten a wagon? There were other soldiers but they were located more towards the back of the canvas-covered vehicle. The wagon wouldn’t last them very long, but as they had so many injured, from what he remembered of being dragged into the pavilion, it was useful for the time being.

The commander’s eyes followed the hand on his chest, almost insultingly, it was a left hand, up the forearm, traced the biceps, and eventually, he set sight on the face that owned it. Much to his surprise, as evidenced by the involuntary gasp that escaped him, it was Caedh, dressed entirely differently than he should have been, being a watchman. The watchman, as Bran still thought him, smiled at his commander, drawing another look of surprise from the injured man. It looked better on him, smiling, rather than fearful. There was still a twinge of terror in Caedh’s eyes, but there was far less than there had been just a few days prior, before they had watched Gython get brutally killed. “How…” Bran tried to get up, but the insistent pressure of the hand on his chest kept him down. He might have been conscious and fully lucid, but he was still fairly weak from the exertion of healing his body. He locked eyes with the watchman, grimacing from the sensation of his arm actually still being there competing with his conscious knowledge that it was not. “How long have you been there…? And… What are you wearing?”

What happened next, in truth, both elated and terrified Bran. It was something he was not used to, something he’d always wanted but never got, something he’d always wanted to get from a particular person. Caedh took Bran’s remaining arm, taking the commander’s hand in his own, and raised it to his cheek before nuzzling it with dog-like affection. Surprised, Bran snatched back his hand, staring at it — and Caedh — as though they were mad. He half-expected hurt to be plain on the watchman’s face, but there was no such thing written there. In truth, he was a bit disappointed, as if Caedh had been hurt by the action, Bran would’ve been certain of his feelings for the commander. No. There was understanding, acceptance, on the watchman’s face. It was the sad sort, but there was no hurt, almost as though he had been expecting what happened to happen, and that he had prepared himself for it. Bran sighed and grabbed the hand that Caedh had used to grab his and squeezed it tightly. There was something about the man that just… _spoke_ to him that he could not explain.

The smile returned to the watchman’s face and he let go of Bran’s chest, confident that the commander had learned that he wasn’t supposed to sit up yet. “I’m not a soldier, sir…” he said, slowly, and just as Bran shook his head from side to side in denial of what Caedh was saying, he pressed a finger on the other man’s lips. “I’ve known that since you saved me from Gython… In truth, I think, maybe, I knew it since that first night that he took me.” There was a look of sympathy on Bran’s face, but there was also a modicum of respect evident in his eyes. He wanted to listen to what Caedh had to say. He didn’t want the watchman to think that his words meant nothing. In the days he’d been unconscious, it seemed that the man had grown himself a backbone, albeit a softer one than most. “I’ve been helping Aeron…” Bran raised an eyebrow at the watchman. “I’ve become an apprentice physician. I’ll be more useful here than on the battlefield.” That certainly explained the clothing, though it definitely seemed strange as they did not have any apprentices in the company. Who had the forethought to bring the clothing for that station, he did not know. The fact that the cloth seemed to fit Caedh exactly right, on the other hand, seemed to be a matter of providence.

“I haven’t left your side since we left town…” Bran’s eyes got even more watery. He did not know how to respond to such dedication, such affection, such… Dare he think it? Love? No. It was not possible. Caedh had not known him long enough, and yet, the commander was sure, that there _was_ a connection between them, and that much, at least, could not be ignored. “I had to make sure you were alright…” Bran got choked up, and ended up berating himself for feeling so emotional. He was a _man_ , gods damn it! A commander of a company tasked with finding a lost prince, no less! A look of annoyance momentarily shadowed Caedh’s face. “The dame visited you often. Asked about your condition.” A small part of Bran’s heart that was still holding out hope for his partner in command fluttered in his chest. “She always said she just wanted to make sure her best friend in the world was safe.” That same part of the commander wilted at the words. He was a fool to have gotten his hopes up.

The finger was still firmly on Bran’s lips, telling him that Caedh was not done saying all that he needed — or for that matter, wanted — to say to the man that had, in many ways, saved his life. Changed it for the better, really. And though he might not have been the man he once was, Caedh was grateful all the same. “Sir, you said once that I was a soldier. That I _am_ a soldier…” Bran nodded. He still believed that. A soldier through and through for not taking the easy way out of his torment under Gython, for instead enduring and, though the watchman might not know it himself, hoping to find a way out of his predicament. “With all due respect, Sir, I am not…” Bran disagreed, but the fact that Caedh did not hang his head in defeat said something about his character. “I became one because it was all I ever wanted to be, never imagining what it really meant to be a man of the army. A man of war.” The watchman sighed. “I realized these past few days that perhaps I was never meant to be one.”

“I may have fought. I may have spilled blood. I may have killed in the name of my king. But, truth be told, Sir, it never _really_ felt right.” There was a strength in Caedh’s words that had not been there before, and, in response, Bran found the corners of his lips twisting up in a smile. He was happy for the watchman. He was proud, despite not necessarily agreeing with the man’s view, despite having only known him, truly known him, for the briefest of whiles. “Maybe part of the reason Gython chose me, part of the reason I chose him, part of the reason I was so scared to tell anyone, so scared to just end it, was because it felt like I’d found my place.” Anger flashed in Bran’s eyes, and that did not escape Caedh’s attention. “No, Sir, I’m not saying what he did was right. He did terrible things to me. Things that…” A broken sound escaped him, confidence faltering for a moment. Taking care of Bran had been the distraction he’d needed from the trauma of his experience. Seeing Gython die helped, too. He knew the giant would no longer be there to torment him.

“Things that… I… I still can’t sleep… W-without…” The finger on Bran’s lips slipped and instead of saying something, instead of protesting what was being said, weakly, softly, the commander made comforting, hushing sounds that seemed to help a lot. There was something bubbling in the pit of Bran’s stomach, though, something he’d only ever felt whenever Gwen mentioned the prince. The thought of Gwen, in truth, triggered nothing in him anymore. Perhaps he’d gotten over his infatuation with the woman. Only time would tell. For the moment, though, it was him, Caedh, and a dozen other soldiers dozing off in the back of the wagon. “I-I went to one of the men you t-threatened with execution… T-told him to do to me what Gython would every night… It was the only way… Then I would come back to you… And I would sleep here. On the floor. So that if anything happened, I could be there to pay you back for saving me…” For a moment, there were only inconsolable sobs. Thankfully, none of the other soldiers were awake, or, if any of them were, they were wisely pretending not to be.

“You…” croaked Bran weakly, swirling his thumb around the back of Caedh’s hand as he did. His only thumb, now. “You did what you had to… Why are you… crying?” he asked, and it only seemed to intensify the watchman’s despair. Bran didn’t understand. He would have understood Caedh going out of his way to help him back to camp. To help him not die that first night. He didn’t understand why the watchman had chosen to become a physician in order to help him. Why he had kept a steady vigil for gods know how long. Bran still did not know how long it had been since he last awoke. Why he was here now, tending to him, instead of the others. In a way, perhaps some part of him knew exactly why, because he could feel the beating of his heart gradually become faster. There was, however, a part of him, the same part that ascribed the traits of courage and fortitude to being a man that simply refused to acknowledge the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he was, in a way pertaining only to Caedh, a reversal like the friends he’d lost. That would surely explain the twinge of jealousy he had to fight down when he heard that Caedh had gone to someone else for his comfort.

“Because I didn’t want to go to him…” There was a long drawn out pause. Bran knew there was something else that the once-watchman wanted to say, something he was gathering the courage to say. He remained silent, squeezing Caedh’s hand in support, instead. Smiling at him in sympathy and in reassurance. The watchman wiped his eyes with his other hand — a luxury that, Bran bitterly noted, he would never have again — and let out a shuddering sigh of resignation. “I wanted you… But you were asleep… And… I would’ve stayed awake instead. Waited for you. But you weren’t waking up. And I had to sleep. I was tired. Exhausted. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry…” The revelation stunned Bran to speechlessness. What had he done to deserve this level of adoration, this _devotion_ from the once-watchman? Sure, he’d lifted Caedh from torment, saved him from nightly abuse and daily fear, but any sane man would have called it a debt and gone on their own way. Not Caedh. No.

“It’s alright… It’s alright…” whispered Bran reassuringly, releasing Caedh’s hand and instead patting the once-watchman’s forearm. “Like I said… You did what you had to do. You needn’t do it again if you don’t want to.” Caedh smiled, face brightening up slightly, coming out from the shadow that it had been hiding mere moments ago. The reassurance and the approval from Bran seemed to set him at ease, seemed to set his heart at peace. The implications of the matter, though, in truth, unsettled the commander somewhat. His heart, though, that had always wanted affection like Caedh was giving him, was not about to complain.

“You were also wrong about one more thing” said the once-watchman, making Bran raise an eyebrow quizzically. “About me being a man. I’m not” The watchman heaved a sigh. “Not anymore. Not after what Gython did to me. Not after what he showed me about myself…” The commander shook his head fervently from side to side. He was not agreeing. Not one bit. Before he could speak, though, Caedh began to talk again. “Alright. Maybe. I do still have a cock… But… I am _less._ Less a man.”

“Sir…” Bran grimaced, he wanted to tell the once-watchman to call him by his name, especially since they seemed to be in relative privacy. He also wanted to tell Caedh that he was not less a man for what he had endured. “I may have been a man once. A soldier once. I had a wife. I had children. Even though he was terrible to me. Even though every night with him was hell. Torment. Suffering. Gython showed me that that was not who I am. I only ever agreed to wed because of my mother. Now she’s dead. And so is Caedh the man, Caedh the soldier.” An adorable — Bran didn’t ever think he would think that of a man, but nevertheless, he did of Caedh — flush crept up the once-watchman’s neck and up into his cheeks. “I… I… I like being in servitude…” The commander’s eyes widened in surprise. They both knew what kind of servitude the once-watchman was talking about, and, needless to say, it was astonishing to Bran that Caedh would want that kind of life. “Sir… If you’ll have me, I’d like… I’d lik—” Caedh coughed, trying to get past the lump that had formed in his throat. “Sir… If you’ll have me, I’d like to be yours as I was Gython’s…”

Surprised, and entirely overwhelmed by the confession, Bran only nodded his head. He was sure that he would need to think things through, that he would have to convince Caedh that this was not the life he wanted, that this was not the life Bran wanted for him, yet, inexplicably, there was a part of Bran that was glad, elated, even, that the once-watchman would entrust himself to the commander. That part of his wanted to take Caedh. Wanted to show him who owned him. Wanted to protect him. Those were feelings foreign to Bran, and they were unsettling. So he shoved them away for a moment, but he opened his mouth to say “If that’s what you want…” before he slung his right arm over Caedh’s shoulders and brought the once-watchman down to lie by his side. He could have sworn Caedh purred happily as he slid down.

For once in his life, Bran was forced to reexamine what he thought it mean to be a man because here was someone clearly displaying the courage to admit that he had changed, that he was not who he once was. Here was someone clearly displaying the dedication to still making something of the life he now had. Here was someone that despite not killing for the sake of honour, family, or love; did not fuck women; and did not drink ale, seemed to be much more a man than most that Bran had ever known. In his final moments of consciousness, he realized something erudite. Perhaps one of the few truly erudite things that he had ever contrived on his own, though he may have had some help from the once-watchman now looking at him intently as his head lay upon Bran’s arm. He whispered, before sleep overtook him again, “Submission doesn’t make you any less a man… Admitting to liking it. Having the courage to submit… Caedh, I think that makes you _more_ …”

\----------

The snowstorm had begun a day prior, after a few days of relentless raining that was good for some of Jack’s crops but terrible for others. It had come entirely out of the blue, and, in truth, even if it had been preceded by a week of cold winds, the snowstorm would still have been out of place. It was already summer, for fuck’s sake. A snowstorm in the middle of summer would have been like a week in winter with hot enough weather to frolic naked in the meadows. Jack paused to consider that image as he peered outside the window at the steadily-building snowbanks and smiled. It would definitely be quite something to frolic naked with Elian through the meadows. And then have sex. Multiple times. Tenderly. Roughly. Kinkily. The options seemed limitless. He looked at the blond sleeping by the hearth in the living room, wrapped in blankets, as Elian had chosen to go to sleep with his ice inhibited, and blushed. His erection was beginning to show. Had he been wearing breeches, the farmboy would have tried his best to adjust his cock to make it less visible as Glaise was looking at him with one ear raised.

He didn’t have breeches. In fact, he didn’t have a tunic thrown on either. His well-sculpted, youthful, and importantly, virile body was on full display for his dog, and anyone else fortunate enough to be conscious in the farmstead to see. That was partly the idea, as he wanted to be ready and waiting for Elian when the blond finally stirred from his deep slumber. They had been enjoying each other sexually for the past little while as the snowstorm meant that they had very little to do outside of the farmstead other than feed the animals which usually didn’t take very long. What else were two young men in the prime of their youth who were slowly falling madly in love with each other to do after all that had been taken care of? Why, explore each other, of course. Glaise had taken to avoiding the two whenever they were both awake, or either one of them was aroused. Sure enough, the dog huffed at Jack and wandered elsewhere in the house. The farmboy supposed that the hound was alright going to the colder areas of the house, as he was, after all, a frosthound now.

Jack walked towards Elian, hips swaying in an unwittingly seductive manner as he did, his cock bobbing up and down with every footfall. He twisted the ring on his finger, reverting to his mundane mortal state. There were times he resented the form, but there were others he quite loved it. He and Elian both knew they were fortunate enough to have the ability to control which form they were in. There were times when the ice grew tiresome, if not for the constant cold, but for the constant need for warmth whenever the two of them were apart. For some odd reason, however, Elian seemed to like him so much better when he was a brunet. He liked to think it was his hair, as he knew that his being pale, having white hair and blue eyes was something of a sore spot for the young self-exiled prince. Despite Jack’s persistence with reminding the blond that the ice was not a curse, Elian was stubborn. Almost as stubborn as he was. Nevertheless, seeing Jack with the ice sometimes made him guilty for passing on his ‘curse’ to the other young man.

The farmboy knelt by his lover and gently shook his shoulder to wake him from his rather deep slumber. The blond’s mouth was slightly ajar, his breathing even and calm, a visage of peace so different from how he’d used to sleep before they had, together, managed to heal the rift in his heart. The exile prince sniffled once, startled by the touch and the motion, before groggily cracking his eyes open and smiling at the face of Jack looming close above his own. He leaned up on his shoulders, the blankets falling away from his torso, and planted a chaste but nonetheless loving kiss on the farmboy’s succulent lips. Jack made a surprised sound at about the same time Elian groaned, because the farmboy, in moving his hand over to the other side of the blond, had brushed up against an erection that he had not seen while Elian was curled up on his side. “Happy to see me?” he quipped as they parted for breath, the beginnings of a grin manifesting themselves before being swept away by another kiss. “Mmmph.” He groaned. Elian had found _his_ erection and the blond seemed to be dead-set on making him cum already with insistent tugging on the turgid member.

“I could ask you the same question…” said Elian with a smile. There was simply nothing that could quite compare to what he was experiencing with Jack during this short time. Jack grinned, giving the still-encased-in-blankets member of Elian’s a tug in reciprocation. “Good morning, Jack” whispered the blond as he buried his face in the hollow of the farmboy’s collar, nipping and nibbling at the skin there that he knew was just so erogenous for the farmboy. The blond tangled his fingers in the brunet’s hair, reveling in the softness and how, despite living on a farm, that mop of hair was very rarely unruly, unlike his own that tended to stick up in strange ways if he didn’t take care of it properly. He heard the soft groan from Jack. Nothing better than hearing his lover moan under his ministrations, to feel his lover melt like unfired clay in his hands… The farmboy had captured his heart through and through, and yet, despite all the happiness that they both radiated, there was a small part of Elian that kept back, that watched warily as the storm outside progressed.

Both young men knew that the unnatural weather was not because of their powers, as they had both been in mundane form for the past twenty-four hours. It was not them. That small part of Elian’s shivered as the storm continued to intensify. Something was coming, and it was coming fast. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it might not be friendly. Still, he allowed himself to enjoy being with Jack, as any moment may very well be the last that they spent together for a long time. He decided that if the storm had not subsided by midnight, that he would go out and try to see what was going on. For the moment, though, there was a beautiful brunet farmboy who was both too smart and too horny for his own good that needed some looking after. And by looking after, Elian entirely meant fucking. Fucking until he and his lover climaxed in unison. They always did, for some strange reason. It was as though they were bonded beyond just the love that they shared. It was as though their very minds, their very hearts, their very bodies were melded together, and as a result, in that moment of intense intimacy, they came to fruition together every single time.

Elian’s stomach growled at about the same time Jack’s did. Even that, they did in unison whenever they were entangled in each other. Both young men ended up clinging to each other for support as they descended into an uncontrollable fit of giggling that did not, in any way, manage to soften their throbbing manhoods. “I don’t think we have time to go all the way right now…” said Jack, patting his stomach as he heard a whining from upstairs. Even Glaise seemed to be hungry. “Alright. Quick one?” he said to Elian with a lecherous, mischievous grin. There was a slight hesitation in the otherwise enthusiastic nod that came from the blond, but it was only because he was wary of that grin of Jack’s. Regardless, he entirely expected them both to just lie back down on the blankets and suck each other off at the same time. It seemed as though the brunet had different ideas, and while Elian’s hands were busy tangled in Jack’s hair, the farmboy spat in his hand and grabbed his own cock, slicking it up for _something_ that Elian was oblivious to at the moment.

“Ready?” asked the brunet, the grin on his face never wavering for a single moment. Elian smiled back and met Jack’s lips with his own. _“That’s one way to say yes”_ quipped Jack in his head before then also grabbing Elian’s manhood in the same hand. The blond sucked in air, back arching at the unfamiliar, but nonetheless pleasurable sensation of his cock sliding and rubbing against Jack’s in a constricted space, Jack’s fingers wrapped around the member, in this case. Then the both started thrusting in turn, not in tandem. Elian thrust, Jack remained still. Jack thrust, Elian remained still. The pleasure was electric. The brunet and the blond groaned in unison as the farmboy started to stroke his hand up and down, sending tingling bolts of ecstasy through their entire bodies, and especially, down to their nuts that were already drawn up in preparation for release. They pulled apart for breath, and Jack grinned before laying Elian back down on the blankets and laying on top himself. He released his hand and instead allowed his weight to pin his cock and the blond’s between their stomachs.

With the amount of slick pre-come that they were producing, there was more than enough lubrication to make the experience pleasurable when Jack began to thrust in earnest, his cock grinding against the skin of his stomach, the skin of Elian’s stomach, and the other young man’s cock. The living room was filled with moaning and whimpering soon after as the blond began to mirror what Jack was doing. The brunet held the blond’s hands by his head, making sure that the only stimulation their stiffnesses received was the thrusting that they were both doing. It was a maddeningly slow, yet at the same time, immensely pleasurable build-up towards fulfillment. It didn’t come for a few minutes, but with their lips locked and their flesh rubbing up against each other, the two young men were quite satisfied with basking in the pleasures they were creating. Then the thrusting began to speed up. Their rhythm began to decay. The bucking became more animalistic, more primal. The moaning, groaning, and whimpering became louder. More urgent. Elian’s back arched off of the floor and the blankets there. The two young men entwined their fingers together and squeezed. Their kiss intensified. They closed their eyes. There was a boiling sensation in their nuts. A bubbling in the pits of their abdomens. Their cocks were pulsing, throbbing, leaking pre-come. Then. One thrust. Two thrusts. Three thrusts. Bliss.

The two broke apart, throwing back their heads and howling in mutual pleasure as their cocks rubbed together one more time before spurting pure, white, hot seed to coat their stomachs. It took a few more moments before the orgasm subsided, and Jack collapsed onto Elian, panting and trembling slightly from the exertion. There were twinned contented smiles on their faces. Their members were still hard. In truth, they were only rarely ever flaccid these days, but that was beyond the point. As Jack adjusted himself to get back into position to kiss his lover, he smeared the cum on their stomachs. He pecked Elian on the lips before then moving apart. “I love you…” he said, smiling. “But I suppose I should get off you before we end up stuck together…” Elian chuckled. “Actually… That sounds appealing… but we have breakfast to take care of.” Jack grinned and stood, not bothering to wipe away the cum on his stomach, and the cum still clinging to his cock. Who was going to complain, anyway?

\----------

Another two days passed from the time Bran woke in the wagon before their small company finally managed to make it to their new campsite. All the new possessions and essentials they’d managed to salvage from the other town before they burned it down had slowed their pace so much that it was becoming quickly clear that they would have to get rid of some of the less essential things as they were limited to the slowly-degrading wagons that were already carrying injured men that had yet to fully recover, as well as the physicians that were watching them around the clock. The commander had woken two more times since he accepted Caedh as his, though he was still not entirely sure what that entailed, but both occasions, he’d only been awake long enough to be fed and to drink. Then he’d fallen asleep all too quickly in Caedh’s lap. Something that was, as with everything concerning the once-watchman, alien, seemingly unnatural, something he was unused to that, for some unfathomable reason, just seemed to be exactly the right thing to do.

When next he woke, they had already settled into camp, and he was in his tent, with Caedh sleeping happily on the ground by Bran’s bed. He looked at the once-watchman and shook his head in both denial and in an unexpected wave of affection. He stopped when he realized what it meant that Caedh was sleeping by his bed. He’d probably been with another man the previous night. Getting fucked until he begged for it to stop, but not stopping until there was cum buried deep inside him and he could just about barely stand and stagger back to where he was supposed to sleep afterwards. Bran couldn’t help the jealousy that then surged in his veins. He couldn’t explain where these emotions had come from, all his life he’d lusted after women, wanted only women, and while there were times he found men somewhat attractive, he’d always ignored those feelings, dismissing them as merely an appreciation of the masculine form. Now, he was doubting whether that was all those feelings were. An appreciation. He’d certainly started to feel differently about the masculine form ever since he joined this company, ever since he met those two lovers that had so openly welcomed him into their bed when he was lonely. Perhaps he _had_ always been partly a reversal…

To him, however, what truly mattered at the moment, was the fact that there was a part of him that wanted so badly to protect Caedh, but there was one thing stopping him from doing that as best as he could. He was missing an entire arm. He had his sword-arm, yes, but he didn’t have his other arm to balance his body when he fought. He would have to relearn how to fight all over again, and in the meantime, he would be mostly useless as the commander of their company. He sighed and with great effort, lowered himself back on the bed, as he had pushed himself up with his elbows… no. Elbow. He was still suffering from the cognitive dissonance of the phantom limb that his body seemed set on telling him was still there, but his mind was entirely sure wasn’t. It was difficult, and he couldn’t think of any way to make it stop. He rolled over to his side, and his body screamed at him that he was squishing his arm. His mind was telling his body to stop overreacting as the arm was no longer there. Feeling helpless, he allowed sleep to overtake him again.

\----------

The rest of the day had gone by in relative peace, and, in terms better suited to truly describe the situation, all that meant was that neither young man had broken any piece of furniture by having sex on it. They came close with the kitchen table, but that had been a disaster that was quickly averted. Boredom was a great aphrodisiac, they quickly learned, as after breakfast, and feeding the animals, there had been nothing much of note left to do other than bugger like rabbits. Even if they weren’t fucking each other to fruition, they were engaged in some lovely teasing, usually the result of an innocent and lighthearted conversation turned perverted. As much as it may have seemed fast or wrong to the two young men, their hormones, and something deeper that they did not know of, were drawing them closer and closer faster than most. One of the unforeseen consequences was the increased libido as their bond was maturing, and that night, as the two men shuddered and came in unison, Elian inside Jack with a guttural roar, and the farmboy all over himself and the blond with a sultry moan, the bond between their souls became complete.

There were powers at work around the two young men far beyond their own understanding. However, those powers would not always be so, they had simply not yet awoken to their true nature. It was these powers that allowed the bond between their souls to form, and this bond of theirs was one that would last eternity, that would remain unbroken though they may take other lovers, find other loves, find homes half the world apart, or, indeed, find homes worlds apart. It was also these powers that protected Elian from the siren song of the Shard that had been enchanted to call out to him. The very same shard that was contained in Gwen and Bran’s camp. When Jack was softly snoring, arms splayed about him in his characteristically adorable fashion, the protection around Elian dissolved into nothing. His unprepared essence was vulnerable, and indeed, the enchantment almost instantly took. He had been drifting off, thinking about Jack and the day they’d had, and worrying about the snowstorm raging outside, when all of a sudden he passed out. In truth, however, it was merely that his consciousness had been hijacked. Stiffly, with jerking motions that only puppets in puppeteers’ hands would ever do naturally, he rose from the bed, eyes blank.

Glaise was nowhere near them, having been tired of the constant arousal he was smelling from the two, and the constant threat that his masters were going to be coupling in front of him. There was no one to warn Jack of what Elian was about to do. As though deep in a trance, the blond then picked up his clothes and dressed as silently as was humanly possible, avoiding jarring his lover to wakefulness with his actions. Fully clothed, the possessed prince looked back, eyes momentarily clearing in a moment of lucidity as he tried his best to fight the enchantment that was pulling him away from Jack. He tried to open his mouth to speak, tried to will his throat to give voice to his words, but nothing came. He wanted to scream, beg for help, anything to wake his beloved so that he would not have to leave the farmboy without so much as a goodbye. It was useless. His own body, his own flesh and blood, were a prison to his consciousness. He struggled fruitlessly, but he tired. And then, the enchantment took hold once more.

The blond stepped out of the window, and just as he was to hit the ground with a sickening crunch, he twisted his ring so that his ice would return and he summoned a wind much like Jack used to get around when he was lazy. Elian had never mastered the art, but it seemed that the enchantment wasn’t so much concerned as to what he’d been able to learn so much as what he was truly capable of. Silent as a large cat prowling through the trees to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, Elian flew away from the farmstead, away from his beloved. Inwardly, as he tried to struggle with his bonds, the young prince screamed and fought with the fists and legs of his consciousness. He banged against the prison walls, and kicked against them. His fighting was of no use. The prison was his own body, his own mind, and at the moment, neither was his. It was midnight by the time he reached his destination, and once there, he found himself in control once more. He was ten feet into the camp. He looked around. Fortunately the night watchmen had yet to notice him.

Elian turned around, hoping to run away. Run away he did. For ten feet. Then, the enchantment took hold and he was pulled back. Once back in a reasonable distance from what seemed to be a camp, the enchantment allowed him to control his body once more. He growled. He wasn’t going to let whatever it was that was preventing him from leaving win. He had to get back to Jack, he explained to the mysterious force as though that was going to help him in any way. He had to just say goodbye to his lover, his partner… Then, _then_ he would come of his own volition. He just wanted to be able to say that he loved the sometimes-awkward, sometimes-goofy farmboy one last time before whatever kind of magic it was that was drawing him to this place prevented him from seeing the lovable young man again. He tried two more times before he was finally spotted, and each time, to no avail. He wasn’t being allowed to leave the camp. He sank to his knees, but very nearly shot up again in horror when he heard something that he hadn’t been expecting to hear for years yet.

His mother tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I'd really like to hear your feedback on where the story is currently going, whether the pacing is alright, et cetera.
> 
> How do you like the Bran-Caedh story arc? Is it something you'd like to see more of?
> 
> In any case. Here's next week's preview!
> 
> _He found Caedh lying on his side on the floor, eyes open and watching the pale moonlight filtering through the rip in Bran’s tent canvas that had yet to be patched up. The commander swore, wondering if anyone had even so much as gone to his tent to survey the damage. It was in the middle of a litany of threats, after all it had been little more than a week since the damage had been done and yet no one had repaired it even after he’d specifically asked one of the squires to do something about the damage earlier in the day, that he realized what he was seeing. Moonlight. Streaming through the gash in his tent. Clear and unobstructed. A milky bar with tiny snowflakes dancing through it. He gasped, drawing Caedh’s attention who promptly sat up and looked at the man he considered to be his new master after Gython. “W-what?!”_


	23. A Promise to Fulfill

By some twist of fate, the moment that Elian set foot in camp, Bran was jolted awake. He’d spent much of the day bedridden, taking care of things by giving orders and receiving information from squires he sent on numerous errands around camp. He found Caedh lying on his side on the floor, eyes open and watching the pale moonlight filtering through the rip in Bran’s tent canvas that had yet to be patched up. The commander swore, wondering if anyone had even so much as gone to his tent to survey the damage. It was in the middle of a litany of threats, after all it had been little more than a week since the damage had been done and yet no one had repaired it even after he’d specifically asked one of the squires to do something about the damage earlier in the day, that he realized what he was seeing. Moonlight. Streaming through the gash in his tent. Clear and unobstructed. A milky bar with tiny snowflakes dancing through it. He gasped, drawing Caedh’s attention who promptly sat up and looked at the man he considered to be his new master after Gython. “W-what?!” he sputtered, making the man who had given himself so freely to the commander chuckle as it was normally he that stuttered, unable to speak his words clearly. The commander, though there were times he looked like he didn’t know what to say, at least still managed to string his words together clearly.

This time, however, the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing before him had jarred him so much that he could barely form coherent thoughts at the speed his mind was racing. Never, not even once since Vamara had fallen under its curse, had the skies been clear for any large group of its citizens. Their congregation in even a company as small as Bran’s invariably attracted Winter wherever they went. Yet, here, plain as day, the cold in the air was muted, and the skies were clear from the constantly raging snowstorms around the troupe of soldiers. It was, in many ways, truly miraculous. Caedh grabbed his hand and nosed it, the way he usually asked for permission to speak though Bran made it clear that he could speak whenever he wanted. Instead of launching into a lecture about how Caedh was a free person despite what he thought, the commander instead just gulped and nodded his consent.

“Sir, it cleared up just now…” said the once-watchman slowly with a voice that betrayed the wonder that his eyes held as he looked up at Bran. Could it be that whatever had caused the storm to dissipate was the same thing that made Bran wake up in the middle of the night? The next question that crossed his thoughts was even more impossible than the last. Could it be that it was in fact Bran’s sudden and rude awakening that was the cause of the storm clearing up? Unlikely, but nevertheless he fancied the thought for a moment if only because it put forth the notion that he had some latent power to control the weather. He and Caedh had been just watching the moonlight silently for a few minutes, wondering what on earth had the power to chase away Winter itself, that they received their answer, as Gwen burst into the tent, failing to realize Bran’s state of undress and the way Caedh was holding his hand. Her eyes were wide and wild with excitement, as though the best thing that could have happened had happened.

In a way, it had. “He’s here. He’s here, Bran!” Before the commander could ask his partner-in-command what had happened, his question was answered, almost as though Gwen was reading his mind, though it was more likely that in her exuberance she couldn’t wait for the man to react. “Elian! He _came_ to _us_!” Bran’s eyes widened and he was about to ask how Gwen was so sure when she yelled at him to get dressed and meet her at the commanders’ pavilion to welcome their prince. He sighed and placed his face in his hands. Now there truly was no hope for him when it came to Gwen, now that the prince was here, he was sure she would obsess over him needlessly. For the first time in a long while, however, those thoughts of his didn’t seem to bother him at all. He looked down at his hand that was still held, albeit loosely, by Caedh, and he realized that maybe that wasn’t too bad after all. Perhaps he’d been confusing his emotions with Gwen, or with women, in particular. He wasn’t sure. In any case, he had enough affection from Caedh. In truth, even the gesture of the man asking him for permission to speak was an affectionate one.

Nevertheless, Bran sighed and looked around the place, trying to spot his armour. It had been repaired earlier during their stop, the shoulder-piece was adapted to protect the vulnerable place where the smooth bump of flesh where his arm had once been, and the once-razor sharp edges were dulled so as to prevent any injury to his person. The commander sighed and tried to rise to his feet, but Caedh beat him to it. “Sir, let me help you.” There was an inexplicable anger that bubbled up in the pit of his stomach at the words, and at the sight of the once-watchman approaching him with the custom-fitted steel. He rose from the bed and strode over to Caedh, using his one arm to knock the armor out of the once-watchman’s hands. There was a look of hurt on the other man’s face. In many ways, it was almost like a hurt puppy. Even though some part of him found the expression adorable, and some other part of him felt bad for being so aggressive, but mostly, he bristled instead and growled.

In response, the once-watchman whimpered and backed away as Bran bent over his waist and grabbed the armor. Again it felt as though his other arm still existed and, without thinking, as he had had his entire life to get into the habit of picking his armour up with both hands, he tried to lift it. Without his other arm to steady him, he very nearly fell over from the unexpected weight. The once-watchman made a noise in surprise and out of frustration because he really wanted to help, but Bran, with his pride, refused him the ability to. The commander growled, irritation growing, and instead picked up one piece at a time, dragging it all to the floor by his bed before sitting down and attempting to puzzle out how to get everything on. It was, in many ways, hopeless. The chest-piece was easy enough to get into position, but no maneuvering of his right arm allowed him to fasten the leather straps without knocking the chest piece off of his torso. He growled and tried again. And again. And again. With each failure, the futility of his attempts became startlingly clear, and he found it infuriating.

He tried again. And again. To no avail. By the fifth attempt, he grabbed the chestplate with his last remaining hand and hurled it in some random direction, waiting for the clang of the piece to give him some solace. It never came. He just sat there, trembling in frustration, and anger, and despair, and it wasn’t until he felt frozen droplets bouncing off of his thigh that he realized he had been crying. He reached up and rubbed away the tracks of tears down his cheeks, fixing Caedh with a glare. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so aggressive with the once-watchman as it was not Caedh’s fault that there had been blademanes where they should not have been, ending with his amputation. Nevertheless, he was angry. He was angry that one of the few things he actually put time into learning to do for himself — he was very proud of the fact that he didn’t need a squire following him around — had been taken away from him in an instant of searing pain and enveloping agony. He couldn’t imagine what other things he now couldn’t possibly do on his own, owing to the lack of an arm.

There was, however, one thing that he silently swore he would never be unable to do despite the fact that he had lost one of his limbs. He would learn to wield the sword again. He would learn it. Master it. Hone his body. Train. He would become even better with the sword than he once was with both arms. Branden Ellöyn didn’t want to go down in history, as he and Gwen surely would for successfully bringing back Elian Calland to Vamara, as the one-armed commander of his small band of soldiers. No. He wanted to go down in history as Branden Ellöyn the one-armed swordsmaster. He would make it happen if it was the last thing he did.

With that vow, the anger surging through him subsided, although, the despair remained and he continued to mourn the loss of his arm. It wasn’t until he felt a weight beside him on the bed, and hands deftly tightening straps of leather around his body, that he looked up and realized that despite what he’d done, Caedh was still helping him. He was thankful, and offered the once-watchman a smile when he realized there was a lump in his throat that blocked his speech. The smile was returned and again, Bran felt the strange feeling of elation in his heart at the smile. It was almost as though some part of him was seeking approval and validation from Caedh even though his mind had since rationalized that perhaps he needed to give the same to the once-watchman to keep him happy.

Bran sighed as the once-watchman picked up the modified pauldron and caressed it with a mixture of sadness and steely-eyed determination. It then crossed the Commander’s mind that maybe the once-watchman was thinking of the unthinkable, the quite literally impossible. Caedh was thinking of restoring his commander and master’s arm to him. The once-watchman left the pauldron on his lap and with his fingers rolled up the short sleeve of the tunic that was supposed to go underneath the armour. Lightly, the once-wathcman’s fingers traced over the stump that was there. It had almost fully healed. Bran had actually been surprised when he first saw his shoulder. He was expecting it to be gruesome, but instead, there was a small lump of flesh that covered the socket where his arm had once been, and smooth skin in turn covered that.

There were still bandages wound around his torso and some parts of his shoulder as those parts hadn’t yet healed, but still, it seemed almost miraculous, how he had recovered. Perhaps, because of his status as commander of the company, the physicians had cracked open their most precious trunk, the one that contained all the enchanted elixirs, and tinctures, and potions. He could only imagine how much gold repairing his shoulder had cost Vamara. Nevertheless, for that, at least, he was thankful. Having the area seem at least somewhat pleasant made bearing the burden so much better. Caedh’s fingers swirled once, lovingly, around the still-healing, still-knitting together flesh, and he frowned. That had been his fault. If it had not been for him, Bran would never have confronted Gython, would never have been out there, would never have been attacked by the blademane. Even so, he kept his guilt quiet and did not apologize. He was grateful for being rescued from the giant, and he knew that if he confessed to his guilt, Bran would be insulted. So instead he kept quiet and just continued berating himself for dragging someone else into the mess he’d been mired in even if he was very much a happy man to be out of it.

With a simultaneous sigh from both men that made them look at each other and break out into nervous smiles, Caedh picked up the pauldron and fastened it over the commander’s shoulder. Instinctively, Bran’s right arm shot up and hovered over his left shoulder as he tried to roll it. Force of habit. Caedh could only look on helplessly as Bran sighed dejectedly and hung his head as again he was reminded that he was but a one-armed man for the moment. The incident had definitely done much to unsettle the commander’s self-confidence. He’d not only lost his arm that fateful day, he’d also been beaten by Gython and despite his pleading for mercy for Caedh, failed to protect the once-watchman and very nearly ended up in a worse situation than Caedh had been initially. Bran’s once-unwavering belief in himself was shot. He’d failed his friends. He’d failed Caedh. He’d lost his arm. Now he was likely to fail even more people he cared about. No. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

With a burning determination in his eyes, softened though as it was with the crippling self-doubt that still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, and with a lot of trouble and scuffling around, he managed to pull on his greaves and stood tall. Not as tall as he once did, but tall, nonetheless, and strode out of the tent, taking one last glance at Caedh as he ducked under the flap. The once-watchman was smiling, seeing some of the fire that had vacated his commander — and master — come rushing back to him. With a smile back of his own, Bran left the tent and faced the world outside. The clear skies were definitely new. Alien now, even, after all those years. He cast his eyes about and found the commanders’ tent. With some reinvigorated strength in his steps, Bran walked to where Gwen was, hoping against hope that it was indeed Elian Calland and not some impostor, so that he could tell his men that finally, after years of searching, they were going home.

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Glaise woke the next day to a brilliant morning, and although he lacked the capacity to form coherent thoughts like a human being, at least for the time being as the changes being wrought in his body had yet to finish entirely, he knew there was something entirely off about the snowstorm being gone overnight. He growled, the sound low in his chest, rumbling through his paws and the wooden floor, as he stalked towards the porch of the farmstead. He nudged the door open with his head and poked his nose out, hoping that he would feel the crisp winter air that, before his transformation, he never really appreciated but now loved more than the heat of summer. Unfortunately, it was the latter. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and pushed the door open just enough to fit his body through. He stepped outside and barked at what he saw. He barked because he didn’t really have any way of cursing at the fact that the snow he liked traipsing through was gone, having left no trace. He growled again, the deep timbre vibrating through his body in a pleasant manner. Once back inside, he realized that there were no sounds of sex going on and he was both terribly disturbed and elated by the fact.

The hound bounded up the stairs, almost losing his footing and tumbling all the way back down at one point, but managing to hold on for dear life. Jack wouldn’t like those claw-marks on the steps, but he didn’t really know how to repair the damage. He licked the wood and breathed frost onto it, hoping that his human master wouldn’t notice the glimmering crystals that had settled into the gashes in the wood. He stepped back and examined his work, whining. No. That wouldn’t do at all. Nevertheless, he just hoped Jack would be too busy with Elian or thoughts of the blond to look down at what he’d done to the stairs. Feeling a bit sheepish — well, as sheepish as a hound could possibly feel — he padded up to just outside of his masters’ bedroom. He nudged the door with his head only to find it firmly locked. Stupid latch. Always denying him access to the room in the mornings. He lowered himself onto his belly and sniffed the gap under the door, licking the doorframe sadly in the process.

It was only then that he realized something was off. He sniffed again. And again, just to confirm that he was smelling the right thing. He bared his teeth and growled. There was something wrong. He rose up to his full height and stood on his hind legs. With his forelegs he banged on the door, jarring the latch and, hopefully, waking the farmboy inside. He banged against the door a second time. Then a third. Finally the latch was loosened and he burst into the room, sniffing the floor to catch the scent of Elian. He couldn’t, for some reason, catch the scent of his other master. He padded over to the bed where Jack was still fast-asleep, probably knocked out from the love-making he and the exiled prince had had the previous night. Elian, however, was nowhere to be found. Glaise surveyed the room, noticing that Jack’s clothes where shedded all over the place, but that Elian’s were nowhere to be found. It was almost as if the blond had vanished into thin air, or left the house that evening. The hound was terribly confused. He’d watched the front door the whole night, and no one had come in or left at all.

He’d only slept lightly come dawn, but even then, he didn’t really need sleep and was only dozing lightly. Anyone leaving or entering would’ve woken him up. Nevertheless, there was a mystery, and he wanted to try and solve it before his master woke up. Unfortunately, even Elian’s scent seemed to have vanished into thin air. Mostly. Then the hound remembered what usually happened when Jack and Elian made love and Jack was on the receiving end of the fucking. Elian’s seed always smelled like him. And it always ran down the farmboy’s legs after a thorough rogering. Glaise yipped softly and jumped on the bed as carefully as he could. He nosed the blanket off of Jack, and finding the morning wood poking at the air, grumbled in annoyance. He nosed Jack over onto his stomach, and the farmboy groaned in his sleep, spreading his legs thinking it was his lover. It wasn’t until he felt the cold snout sniffing on his ass and licking him clean did he realize it wasn’t Elian but his hound. He jolted awake and screamed at the odd sensation. It felt good, but it was wrong!

The farmboy scrambled to a corner of the bed, drawing his blankets around his naked form, and yelled “Glaise! Bad dog!” at his hound. Glaise sniffed derisively at him before nosing at where Elian was supposed to be, walking around it in a circle and laying down whining softly. “Where’s Elian?” Glaise whined even louder and shook his head as though to tell Jack that he didn’t know. Perhaps that was why the dog had been sniffing him, trying to find Elian’s scent so he could track the blond. Glaise, however, hung his head in defeat. The scent didn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t pick up a trail. He whined even louder as Jack made his way out of the room and down the stairs, seed trickling out of his pucker, and calling out the name of his lover “Elian?” Jack poked his head into the kitchen and looked around. He saw no one, and saw no sign of anyone being there. “Elian?” he asked, poking his head into his own room. The blond wasn’t there either. Wherever he was, Elian was not in the farmstead. A sense of dread planted itself in Jack’s heart and he quickly ran back to the bedroom he shared with Elian, grabbed his clothes and beckoned Glaise to follow him. They were going to look for Elian around the property.

They went around the back to the barn. The blond was not there either. They went to the farm. The blond was absent. Frustrated, Jack checked the stables, and not finding the exile prince there, decided to saddle up one of the horses and gallop into the woods around the farm. In a large circle around his property, he rode the horse around, calling for Elian desperately, but did not find him. Glaise was always just behind him, barking whenever Jack had to draw a deep breath, when his voice cracked from the strain. They had a deal! The farmboy protested in his mind as he rode back to the stable, trembling, tears falling from his face. He ran his hands through his hair, forgetting, for the moment, that it was still brown as he had not called back his ice just yet. He sagged against one of the vertical wooden beams in the stables as Glaise padded by to stand beside him. He buried his face in his hands, unable to stop the tears from coming as he slid down the wooden column in despair.

Elian had promised he would leave when he had helped Jack birth the cow, but he was fairly certain that she had yet to give birth to her calf. He rubbed his eyes, angry, and hurt at the sudden abandonment. The blond hadn’t even left a note to tell him where he’d gone. He could only hope that the other promise they had, the promise represented by the ring he had on his finger, would remain sacred for Elian, something that he would fulfill no matter what, if he could. Glaise licked his master’s cheek once before his ears perked up at a strange sound that wasn’t very often heard in their quaint little farmstead. Biting at the hem of Jack’s tunic, the hound pulled at his master towards the stable doors. It shook Jack out of his rumination, and he stood hesitantly and followed the hound. Glaise was leading him to the barn, and sure enough, once within, the hound started to paw at the stall door of the pregnant cow, Bais. The farmboy raised an eyebrow at Glaise and peered in, only to find that she was already suckling a calf, trying her best to get comfortable in the cramped quarters of her stall.

Jack gasped and took one step backwards, she had delivered on her own, and that meant that technically Elian had not broken his promise. The farmboy was still hurt that the blond had left without so much as a goodbye, but he felt better about the situation now. Perhaps Elian had gone out to check on Bais and found that she’d delivered already and decided that it meant that he could leave already. No. Jack ruminated, as he opened the stall door and carefully picked up the calf. Bais looked a bit alarmed, but Glaise’s yipping at her and rubbing against her leg comforted her. Carefully, the farmboy led the mother out of her stall to the special pen that was set aside for the calves and their mothers. Inside he set down the baby and stepped out as Bais moved into the enclosure and stood to one side, allowing her calf to suckle her. No. Jack thought again. Elian would not have left without a goodbye, not after everything that they had been through, not after the budding love they’d nurtured and professed to each other.

Something fishy was going on and Jack wasn’t about to let his lover just vanish into thin air like that. He ran his hands through his hair, and if it was not for the fact that his hand came away with a few stray brown hairs, he likely would not have remembered to call back his ice, mostly because his thoughts were so muddled. He twisted the ring on his finger and staggered backwards as the ice that he thought Elian had given him — truth be told, Elian had merely awakened it in the farmboy — returned to his body. The return felt like walking intro a brick wall and Jack had to steady himself on the wall of a nearby stall. He shook his head and summoned the wind before flying out of the barn and into the open window of the bedroom he shared with Elian… That window was not open the previous night. Jack’s eyes widened as he then saw the pack he’d made for Elian, along with the ice-sword that the prince had painstakingly crafted over the last few days, in the corner where they had been left only the previous day.

There was definitely something else that was happening, and it was probably not good. Jack clenched his fists. Whatever it was, whoever it was that took his lover from him was going to pay. He spent far too long being afraid of the dark, being alone, looking so desperately for love much like his fathers had shown him was possible to just let go of his prince. Nevertheless, he would first have to try to find a way to figure out where the blond had gone. Otherwise, leaving the farmstead to search for his beloved would be a fruitless endeavour. Jack picked up the sword in the corner and stowed it in the pack for safekeeping. He would take it with him once he figured out where to go. For the moment, at least, he hadn’t the faintest clue, but he was angry enough that he was beginning to think that maybe if he remained angry for long enough, he would eventually find one. He jumped into the bed he shared with Elian and rubbed his face against where his ass was probably situated the previous night. As he slept, he was sure that some of the exile prince’s cum had leaked onto the sheets. Sure enough, the familiar scent of Elian clung to the bed. He nuzzled the spot, hoping against hope that maybe Elian had just gone somewhere nearby and was returning later that day.

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Elian fretted in his seat, just as he had thought the day could not get any worse, he was plopped right into the middle of a Vamaran soldier encampment by some sort of magic that he could not even begin to comprehend just yet. The way that the woman whom he could only assume to be the commander of the company reacted with glee to him being found was something of a conundrum to the young exiled prince, first because there was a woman commanding a Vamaran military troop, an extreme rarity from what he recalled. Second, because no Vamaran other than himself had any business being this far south of the homeland.

He was beginning to fear that they were a search party that had been sent after him by his father so that he could swiftly be brought to justice for the crime he committed against his brother. However, the fact that they hadn’t bothered tying him down or locking him up was unsettling. Perhaps they knew that he could not leave camp? They didn’t give any indication to such a thing. In any case, everything about the situation he’d managed to get himself mired in this time was uncomfortable.

Whatever the case was, he fidgeted and tapped his feet impatiently. He brought his hands to his chest when no one was looking, seeming to fold into the gesture as he did, though self-consciousness often snapped him back into an upright position, hands folded on his lap, as he had been trained as a young prince in the palace. Elian hated not knowing what was about to happen to him, and if he was indeed to be executed, if he was indeed to die that night — unlikely as knowing his father, Akthar would like to have him executed in front of the entire city — he wanted to at least have the chance to go back to Jack and bid him goodbye. He didn’t have very long to wait as the woman, the commander, returned to the tent, with a straight face that betrayed the fact that she was trying her best to not smile and to act as professional around Elian as possible. He expected her to talk to him, but all she did was stare at him with a creepy intensity in her eyes that quite frankly, terrified the poor prince.

It was only a few minutes later of terse uncomfortable silence and Elian simply refusing to meet the eyes of the female commander when he picked up on the sound of someone else in armour approaching. The sight that greeted him was quite surprising, a fairly young but somewhat gruff-looking man, perhaps due to the fact that he looked like he’d only just recovered from something, with but a single arm, pulled the tent-flap open and strode into the commanders’ pavilion. “Your highness, Branden Ellöyn, and Gwendolen Iyllyen at your service” said the woman as she bowed and urged the man that had made his way beside her to do the same. He didn’t. He stared at Elian long and hard with a different and altogether more hospitable but also more discerning look that didn’t disturb him as much as the woman’s had. The curtsy was, in many ways, even more confusing than the rest of the situation as, if they were truly out to execute him, they probably would not have bothered, unless it was in sarcasm, but Elian doubted that. “We’ve been searching for you for years. The king commissioned our company to find you and return you to Vamara.”

After a short interim of silence, Elian unable to speak out of a cloying fear that suddenly attached itself to his person, the man standing beside the woman, Branden, smiled. “Please, your highness, call me Bran” he said, extending a hand that Elian warily regarded for a moment before taking it and shaking it instead of squeezing it in the manner expected of him as one of noble birth. His father had sent for him, and it didn’t look like these people were intent on getting him executed. He did not discount, however, the possibility that perhaps his father was merely hiding his crueler intentions from this company that he had commissioned. The man was a discerning one, and although he knew it rude, the blond could not help but stare at the smooth seamless transition from shoulder to torso where there should have been an arm. Elian noticed the annoyance in the commander’s eyes, but those same eyes were quite discerning and they noticed the fear that was more or less palpable in Elian’s eyes. “I suppose you have yet to hear the news” said the commander, straightening with a bit of difficulty. “Your brother has taken the throne.”

Elian’s lips parted in a soft gasp that seemed almost thunderous in the silence that filled the tent at that exact moment. “Andrew?” he whispered, partly unable to find words for the emotions raging through his person. He shivered, the implications screaming in his ears. “He asked for me?” he continued in the same soft, vulnerable voice that almost always prompted Jack to wrap warm comforting arms around him. Could it be possible that he’d been forgiven? That his brother wanted to see him again? He paused for a moment, considering, for the first time that night that perhaps he’d already been forgiven all those years ago.

While he’d been imprisoned and tortured by his father’s command, Andrew had relentlessly knocked on his door, bothered him, asking if they could go and play like they used to. The truth stung. Had he only known that his brother had taken the throne, he would’ve gone back and tried to make amends. However, he never would have met Jack if that was the case, but at the same time, he never would’ve harmed and ruined so many peoples’ lives. “How long?” he asked, slightly trembling. He knew, though, that if they had finally caught up to him that his brother had been in power for at least six years.

“Seven years” said Bran, a sympathetic smile on his face for the shell-shocked prince before him. So much had changed since Elian had been in Vamara, and he didn’t have the heart to inform the young man before him who seemed so afraid that even his brother had changed. Bran never knew the king personally, nor did he actually meet the man. It had been his consort that arranged matters for their company, and while there was something awfully disturbing about the scantily-clad male at the best of times, the commission had been a big one and they had all been more than delighted to partake in service to their new king, thinking that the mission would not be a very long one. The worst of their journey had been their attempts to cross the sea. With the winter storm they brought with them, it had taken numerous months to secure passage, and even then, only under the threat of violence, since Gwen had had it with Bran’s demands for a peaceful quest. They were, after all, just looking for one man. Sure, it had been the prince of Vamara, but he was still just one man.

“My father?” asked Elian, though he knew the answer that was plain in the commander’s eyes. Gwen was still just staring at Elian, though her hands were fiddling at her armour, as though she wanted to tell him something. The blond tried to avoid her gaze for a while longer. There was definitely something strange about her, and Elian did not like it. “Mother?” he continued, turning back his attention to the one-armed man that stood in front of him. He seemed kind enough, and not nearly as strange as his partner-in-command. There was no need to repeat himself, the commander understood the question well enough, and while he couldn’t think of the words to say to the prince, he simply nodded in answer to the unspoken query. Elian made a broken noise. His father’s death was more or less a relief. But he’d always been averted to the idea because it would mean also sacrificing his mother. While she had stood by and allowed his abuse to continue, he knew that she loved him and simply was too afraid to act against Akthar the bloody.

The loss of his mother was something that hurt him on some profound and fundamental level and, for the moment, at least, he clung to the pain to anchor him. “Your highness I—” Gwen began, looking up shyly at Elian, though what she was being shy of, the exile prince honestly could not discern.

“Don’t call me that…” Elian said, perhaps a bit too aggressively as the woman made a bit of a scared sound and backed away from him. He wasn’t entirely sure. There was an unreadable expression on Bran’s face, but somehow, the prince knew that it was not hostile. The three were too busy gauging each other that the fact that Liana was somewhere nearby, listening through the gap between the canvas and the ground in one spot of the tent, was entirely missed. “It’s been years since I last saw Vamara. Years since I last ate at a royal banquet. Danced at a ball…” Elian grimaced, remembering the discomfort he experienced at all those occasions, the strange looks he’d received. He felt honoured, but at the same time, he felt as though he was being singled out for being _different_. “I’m not a prince. Not anymore.” He finished, stiffly.

Bran smiled sympathetically, even the prince had changed over the years. There were a few little facts that could not be ignored about the young man sitting in front of him. There was still a fragment of that noble bearing about him, but he seemed quite happy in peasant clothes. His hands, though Bran had felt that they were still soft like most of privileged birth, were also slightly tough, indicating that he was no stranger to hard work, to labour. The way he sat, it was more like a commoner now, than a prince. Above all, however, was the fact that the young man before him was comfortable with the way he was. He didn’t look entirely too thrilled to be treated like the royalty that his blood made him out to be. That, in itself, was admirable for the commander, and he decided to take pity on the poor young man. “Elian…” he said, drawing a smile from the exile prince. “Perhaps we can continue our talk on the morrow. You may not think yourself a prince anymore, but that does not change the fact that you are. Regardless. The hour is late. We shall find a place for you to sleep.”

Elian smiled at the commander, both rueful and grateful for the offer at the same time. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to leave the camp until they finished their talk and he got to the bottom of whatever it was that was keeping him within the boundaries of the place, but he had yet to sleep, and his body was tired. He stifled a yawn as the one-armed man offered to help him to his feet. He refused the help, standing instead on his own, as he noticed that the commander didn’t entirely seem to be balanced on his own feet. They left the tent, leaving Gwen to ponder what had just occurred. Once outside, Elian turned to the one-armed commander and asked a question that he probably, even as a prince, had no place asking. He was fortunate that Bran took no offense at the question. “Did you just recently lose your arm?” asked the prince, curious, but at the same time, just wanting to take his mind off of what he had just learned. Ruefully, but without hostility, the commander nodded his head.

The rest of the way was spent in silence as Bran guided his prince to a relatively large tent in the camp that had always been set up in case Elian returned to them, but never actually filled. He’d always thought it tacky and needless, and, from the wrinkle in the prince’s nose at the sight of the damnable thing, he thought the same. Nevertheless, at least Elian had a place to stay for the night, which, in many ways, was better than just sleeping on the snow the fresh snow that had managed to fall before, for some strange reason, Elian’s arrival had dispelled the storm. The young prince sighed and pulled aside the tent-flap. Thankfully, the tent was no longer as grand as it had once been. They’d given away the four-poster bed at one of the first few towns they passed. It had been too much to carry properly. They did, however, keep a number of mats so that there was a large enough area for Elian to sleep without feeling too confined. Bran, for some reason, felt the need to clap his hand on the prince’s shoulder, a gesture that Elian smiled at. They nodded at each other in silence before the commander left Elian to whatever it was he wished to do.

\----------

After Bran left, Elian lay in the dim interior of the tent for a good quarter of an hour, thinking, pondering, ruminating, and hoping against hope that they would allow him to see Jack one more time before they returned to Vamara. He did, after all, have a promise to keep. The prince pondered the situation for a moment, and, after a lot of consideration, he made his mind. He wanted to return to the farmboy to tell him that he hadn’t meant to leave without any warning, without even the slightest goodbye. He wanted to tell his lover that once he’d sorted everything out in Vamara, and given his brother his blessing to rule, he would go back to Jack’s farm and live there with the farmboy. In truth, he’d not only fallen in love with the excitable brunet, but he’d also fallen in love with the other young man’s farmstead, and the feeling of a home built out of love that it exuded. With those thoughts settling themselves into irrevocability in the young exile prince’s mind, he drifted into a shallow, slightly disturbed sleep. His mind was reeling, and despite the fact that his brother was looking for him, his thoughts turned unbidden towards his lover.

He woke up not too long afterwards to a strange sensation that he did not think he ever, in his life, felt in any manner. There were two supple mounds of flesh pressing into his upper back, and a slender arm was wrapped against his waist. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that Jack had followed him and was pressing his ass against Elian’s back, but then, the young prince realized that it would be nigh impossible for the farmboy to _also_ wrap his arms around the prince’s midriff. Sure enough, he felt that there was another body beside him, naked flesh pressed up against his back. He hoped against hope there was a cock somewhere there, but there was nothing stiff pressing up against his backside. It was a woman. He scrambled away from the other person and for once, he pondered using his authority as a prince to get the person thrown in jail or the camp’s equivalent thereof. It was harrowing, waking up next to a woman, and he sincerely hoped that nothing intimate had happened between them. Thankfully, however, only his tunic had been taken off.

“Who on earth do you think you are?!” demanded Elian, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clutching the discarded tunic he’d found nearby to his chest. As his eyes re-adjusted themselves to the dim moonlight filtering into the tent through the canvas, he realized who it was that had so unceremoniously interrupted his slumber. It was the other commander, the woman, Gwendolen, was it? He shook his head. Was this what that creepy stare had meant? Had she been so sexually attracted to him that she thought it entirely appropriate to just sneak into his bed — it wasn’t really his, only for the night, but regardless, the point still stood — strip completely naked, and wrap her arms around him like a lover would? It was entirely uncalled for and extremely uncomfortable for the young prince who was, to begin with, not even remotely attracted to women. He doubled over, a dull echo of the psychological torment he’d experienced after his rape ripping through him. The thought of Jack caring for him afterwards drove the pain away and allowed his breathing to return to normal. “Leave. Now.” The woman was motionless, expression on her face unreadable. “Now!”

She stared at him for a moment, bug-eyed as though genuinely surprised at his reaction, which Elian surmised as something even more disturbing about her. It almost seemed as though she thought that what she did, that invasion of privacy of a man of noble birth no less — he had to stop thinking of himself as a noble — was entirely justified. She shook her head, drawing the blankets closer around her naked form instead. “But, Elian, I _love_ you” she said softly, innocently, quizzically. She didn’t understand why Elian wanted her to leave, why the prince reacted so vehemently against her presence in his bed. She loved him, and he should love her. She just _knew_ that was the truth. There was a look of disgust on the young prince’s face as he inched further away from her. She stretched out a hand towards him but he flinched, in response. “Don’t you feel the same way about me?”

Elian’s jaw dropped in response to the ridiculous notion that he could possibly already be in love with her. Even if she had been a man, he wouldn’t have been, less so since she actually _wasn’t_ a man! “No! No I don’t! What in hell gave you that idea?!” he asked, incredulity plain on his strained voice. He felt entirely _violated_ having had her breasts pressed against his back in a manner fitting only of intimate couples. He shuddered at the memory, and backed away more from the strange woman. She had better be thankful he couldn’t leave the camp because he would have run away from them then and there, found Jack, and headed back to Vamara on his own without the help of the company that had been commissioned to find him.

He wasn’t about to do that to the other members of the company, however, even if he had the capability to, as for all he knew, they needed the pay for this mission of theirs to keep their families fed. Nevertheless, he was disgusted. “How on earth could you possibly _love_ me? You don’t even _know_ me!” The woman shook her head as though to disagree, but the young prince merely continued to speak. “No. You don’t _know_ me that way! And besides. Even if you did, for some unfathomable reason, _love_ me, it doesn’t automatically mean I feel the same way for you!”

Elian unclasped one of his hands from the bundle by his chest and showed it to the commander, who was confused for a moment, before she spotted the metallic glint that surrounded his finger. “Besides. I’ve sworn myself to another.” Her eyes widened in horror and denial. “And I _love_ him. I love _him._ I am a reversal. Now get out of my tent!” he demanded, voice regaining its authority as a noble. Even so, it seemed that the words were just barely registering in the woman’s evidently-addled mind. He repeated himself louder, with more authority, with more conviction. He shivered, still disgusted.

“No. That… That can’t be right… You’re just confused! That’s it. You’re just confused. You just haven’t found the right woman yet. Me!” She said, protesting. Instead of rising to leave the tent as her prince had commanded she only settled back down on the bed and patted the space beside her. She threw the blankets off of herself and spread her legs lewdly, jiggling her breasts at the prince in an obscene manner that made him avert his eyes in revulsion. “Come on, my prince…” she said sultrily. “Give me a try. You’ll forget all about _him—_ ” she referred to Jack with such malice that it genuinely scared Elian. “Just… like… that…”

With a disgusted grunt, Elian jumped off the bed and left the tent, fuming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> I'm finding it a bit hard to find the motivation to continue the story recently, though. I would really like to hear your feedback if you've read it thus far. Between work for university and other projects, it's difficult to continue writing one that has been pretty much silent in terms of feedback for the past little while.
> 
> If you enjoy the story, leave feedback/thoughts behind, it really helps.
> 
> Here's the preview for the next chapter:
> 
> _The prince would eventually thank her for showing him where his heart truly belonged. With her. Elian would lover her, and she would love him, and they would be so happy. She smiled, walking away from her partner-in-command’s tent with the silence of a prowling predatory cat. She had a plan, and she was going to enact it, consequences be damned._


	24. Love Threatened

It was by some odd quirk of chance that Elian found himself standing outside of Bran's tent, smaller by a generous margin than the prince's own one, but seemingly cozy enough to spend the night in. Without announcing himself, thinking it nothing of the fact that he may very well be disturbing someone's privacy or intimacy, the golden-haired prince lifted the flap and ducked inside. The sight that greeted him, while surprising, was entirely comforting. Perhaps it was this that had made the young prince so comfortable with the one-armed soldier. Bran's arms were snaked around another, buck-naked man, and they were both laying on the floor, the commander absentmindedly nuzzling the other man's neck.

Elian coughed, seemingly embarrassed by his intrusion and said "…Sorry. I'm going to go…" Simultaneously, commander and lover's heads snapped around in abject horror at the sound of Elian's voice, both of them turning a handful of shades of red in response. "Sorry…" said Elian sheepishly as the man in the commander's arms seemed just about ready to die of shame. "I'm like you." He said sheepishly to reassure them that he meant no harm before ducking back out of the tent.

Elian didn't know why but instead of stumbling off to some other poor chap's tent, he just stood outside, rubbing his arms. He didn't really have anywhere else to go. Didn't know anyone else in the camp. Whatever the case, he was far and away more willing to chew his own manhood off without so much as a drink to dull the pain than go back to that delirious and downright insane woman commander waiting in his tent. It was a few minutes later, after much scuffling and whispering inside the tent that Bran appeared outside and turned to Elian.

"I'm sorry I went in without knocking…" The prince took one look at the tent and realized there wasn't anywhere to knock. He looked back at Bran and grinned sheepishly, something he'd learned from Jack. "Well, announced myself at least… I didn't mean to intrude, Bran." The commander scratched his head, not really certain how to respond to his prince. Then he realized that Elian probably didn't want to be treated like one anyway. "I was just running away from that… partner-in-command of yours…" he said, slowly, wondering if it would offend the one-armed man. Surprisingly enough, the words failed to do that.

Instead, Bran's eyes grew wide. He'd expected Gwen to act on her stupid obsession at some point on the long way back home. What the prince did not expect was that she would act on it so soon. He hadn't realized entirely how unstable his partner was, and, he was about to have a rude awakening to what Gwen had truly become. "What did she do, Elian?" asked the commander slowly, hesitantly, as though he wanted to hear the answer but was in truth, afraid of it.

The prince merely shook his head, not wanting to divulge the information, and not wanting to relive the horror he'd witnessed. Surely, for any natural man, the sight would have been appealing, but not for Elian Calland, once-first heir to the throne of Vamara and son of Akthar the Bloody. To him, the vulgar sexual display of naked feminine flesh was disturbing, obscene. Nevertheless, the commander pressed the question and hesitantly, Elian caved and told the man everything he'd seen. Bran turned beet-red, though whether it was out of embarrassment, arousal, or fury, Elian couldn't quite tell. Wordlessly, the commander clapped his arm over Elian's shoulder and led him inside the tent.

"Sincere apologies for Gwen's actions, your highn--Elian" said the commander as soon as they were safely within the confinement of the tent's canvas walls. The other man he could only assume was the commander's lover was still naked, presumably, but he was sitting awestruck in one corner of the tent. "Elian, Caedh" said Bran, gesturing towards the once-watchman who whimpered at the attention, much to the seeming amusement of the commander. "Caedh, Elian." The prince walked towards the quivering man in the corner and extended an arm in fraternity.

The once-watchman gulped visibly and extended a shaky arm all the same. Elian took it and shook it, much like commoners would. Caedh was at first surprised, but then, he smiled, getting slightly over his intimidation and embarrassment at being nude in front of royalty. "Pardon Caedh, but he's a bit shy" said the commander with a grin. The once-watchman shot a baleful glare at his lover, commander, and master. He recoiled almost instantly, averting his gaze and looking down at the ground. He wasn’t supposed to do that to the man whom he had given his submission to.

Bran was amused, at least Caedh was being a lot more feisty, a lot more independent than he had been when he was first rescued from Gython. That was what the commander wanted for the man that had a strange sort of power over his heart. What it was, he could not tell. Whether it was love or something else, it was too early to be certain. Nevertheless, he smiled at the once-watchman, patting the man on the head in reassurance that everything was okay. Mostly. The commander could tell that Caedh was more than a little apprehensive of the prince being nearby. After all, it was not everyday that a mere once-watchman-turned-physician’s-assistant met royalty, much less the man that had been heir apparent before he ran away.

Bran had to choke down the chuckle that threatened to spill from his throat when the once-watchman very nearly jumped out of his skin because Elian decided to take a seat on the floor right next to him. “Uhh…” said the prince, not quite sure how to talk to the clearly-intimidated man. “Don’t be afraid… I’m no more than you” he continued, with a smile that belied the pain he was feeling from not being able to return to Jack.

Caedh lifted his head and smiled shyly at the prince before looking expectantly at Bran. The expectation in his eyes quickly turned to a request, but Bran caught it and smiled inwardly at the greater autonomy that Caedh was beginning to build. Nevertheless, he turned to Elian and rattled off another apology for his partner’s behaviour. It earned him another of those quizzical looks from Caedh and instead of answering, he cocked his head towards Elian and sat down before the two younger men.

This was definitely a change for the commander. The last thing he’d expected when they finally found the prince was spending a night sitting on the floor in his own tent with the prince and a watchman that he rescued from an abusive soldier. Elian sighed and turned to the watchman, explaining, with extreme brevity to lessen the pain, what Gwen had done. Intimidated at first, Caedh slowly became even more interested as Elian regaled him with the tale of the lust-crazed commander, expression turning more and more horrified with each word that slipped the prince’s lips. He shuddered, at the end.

Caedh had to admit, however, that having thoughts of women reawakened a minimal amount of arousal within him, however, it was nowhere near enough the revulsion for womanly parts that Gython had hammered into his consciousness. He supposed he’d always found men and women attractive, but Gython made sure to reinforce his predilection for the first, and tore down that for the latter. Nevertheless, what Gwen did was extremely uncouth, uncalled for, and, Caedh was fairly certain, grounds for expulsion from the military service. Considering how loosely Andrew and his consort had been with the military force of Vamara, however, he was also fairly certain nothing would be done about the commander.

Softly, almost to the point that his words were unintelligible, Caedh looked at Elian and asked “You said you were like us…?” There was an innocence in his voice, shyness, a twinge of fear… The prince nodded. It was at that moment that Caedh realized just how different the blond before him was from his brother. Andrew was different. Belligerent at times, almost like a petulant child. He very rarely interacted with the common man, yet here was his brother Elian, talking with a lowly once-watchman and a minor commander of a minor company of soldiers.

Elian raised his hand and showed the ring to both Bran and Caedh. The once-watchman’s face lit up in a rare show of sentimentality, a part of him that he had quashed because of everyone’s expectations of the soldier that he’d forced himself to become. Bran’s face echoed his for a moment, but then, it slipped into a frown. Elian guessed that the commander was probably thinking of how Gwen would react to the idea of Elian being engaged or at least promised to someone, a man at that, too. “Who was he?” asked Caedh before he could stop himself. He instantly coloured, and averted his gaze, mumbling an apology, as though it was a great affront to speak out of turn. “Sorry.”

The prince frowned and shook his head. “No need to apologize… Speak freely around me. I do mean that I don’t feel like royalty, not anymore.” Caedh nodded in understanding. He was trying. But Gython’s conditioning and his own once-deeply buried desire to be submissive clashed with what Elian was expecting of him. He didn’t quite know what to do anymore. “His name is Jack” said Elian, a fond look crossing his face as he toyed with the band of glimmering metal around his finger. “Jack Frost was what his parents called him. His fathers…” Both Caedh’s and Bran’s eyes widened at the thought. “His fathers named him that because they found him alone on the edge of their property during the first frost. Or at least that what they told him, and what he told me.” Elian sighed, continuing to toy with the ring that signified his promise to Jack that he would come back for the farmboy whenever he was able to do so.

“What was he?” asked Bran, interested, as from his experience, none of the towns and villages anywhere on the way to where they were, were particularly friendly to the reversals and their kin. It was, in many ways, a curiosity to find a young man who was raised by two fathers, who, by the tone of Elian’s voice, were quite evidently lovers. It wasn’t until he saw Elian’s raised eyebrow that he realized what the question may have sounded like. “Sorry. I meant only to ask what he did for a living.” Bran caught the small smile that graced Caedh’s lips at his slip-up.

“He was a farmer” said Elian, noticing the glimmer that suddenly appeared in Caedh’s eyes. “I suppose it sounds like one of those tales that everyone tells themselves, does it not? The royal falling for the commoner?” Caedh and Bran, surprisingly, both nodded in assent. “Only, I haven’t considered myself royalty for a long while. I don’t think I will, even when I get back to Vamara…” The blond trailed off, pain entering the timbre of his voice in the last syllable of their homeland. It was strange, and Bran wanted to know what was troubling his prince so.

“Does he know you are with us?” asked the commander, surprised at the sad shake of Elian’s head. “Why did you not tell him?” _That_ question sparked an angry glare from the prince who then took a moment to breathe deeply and regain his composure. It struck a sore chord, and for a reason far different from what the commander was expecting. Bran and Caedh shared a worried look, both seeming to think the same thing, that Elian and Jack were having relationship problems. Needless to say, despite only knowing the prince for the briefest of times, he had already managed to endear himself to them for being so seemingly innocent and not acting as though he was better than anyone else, and in fact, seeming to act as though he was a bit worse than the average person. “Were you having problems?” asked Bran, tentatively, as he wanted to settle the question of the status of Elian’s relationship with his promised one.

Elian’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “No. No. It’s nothing like that… Only, I never did get the chance to tell him.” Both the men in front of him were puzzled by the admission. Surely the prince and his lover had been together before he arrived at the camp. “We’ve been living together at his farm for a couple of weeks now…” said the blond. “I would never think of leaving without telling him.” The prince sighed. “I love him too much to leave him wondering where I’ve gone like that… We… Let’s just say we both spent quite lonely lives before we met each other, and now that we do have each other, it would just be an insult to leave without letting the other know, without saying so much as a goodbye, a reassurance that we would see each other again.”

“I don’t know what it is, but there’s some magic in this camp that’s keeping me from leaving it.” Bran frowned, could it possibly be the artifact that the king’s consort had given them that prevented Elian from departing the camp? It seemed likely as apart from the enchanted steel they had for their original blades, and the potions that the physicians used for healing, the Shard was the only remotely magical thing that could possibly be to blame. “We had just finished…” The rest of the sentence needed no more saying as Elian turned deeply red and refused to meet Caedh’s and Bran’s eyes.

“Anyway, I was just lying beside him when all of a sudden this… this _magic_ took hold of my body, and wouldn’t let me move as I willed it. It drew me here. Made me fly all the way, actually. I only regained control when I landed outside your camp. I tried to leave, but whenever I did, the magic would take control again and dragged me back into the camp.” Caedh looked at Bran, a pleading look in his eyes. Bran knew what the once-watchman was asking for, and he decided that it was probably the right thing to do.

“Elian… Would it be alright if I send one of my men to either fetch him from his farm or send him a message?” The blond lit up, happiness and gratefulness flooding into his expression as soon as Bran finished making his offer. He nodded enthusiastically and that was all the commander needed. Come the morning, he would have someone send for Jack with a message from Elian. It was only right. They had no business standing in the way of love and their prince’s happiness.

There was, however, someone who believed that she _did_ have a business standing in the way of the _loving_ reunion of those two souls. The woman who believed sincerely with all her heart that she was the one meant for the prince and that the prince was the one meant for her. Unfortunately for Bran, Caedh, and Elian, she had been listening the whole while, in much the same manner Liana had been earlier at the commanders’ tent. Gwen quickly cooked up a plan to get rid of her rival for Elian’s heart. The prince would eventually understand.

The prince would eventually thank her for showing him where his heart _truly_ belonged. With her. Elian would lover her, and she would love him, and they would be so _happy_. She smiled, walking away from her partner-in-command’s tent with the silence of a prowling predatory cat. She had a plan, and she was going to enact it, consequences be damned.

\----------

It was about mid-day when Jack finally rose from the bed, stomach grumbling from the way that he missed eating breakfast. He was distressed, but he was also hungry, and, despite the whirling of his thoughts, his worrying for his beloved, he needed to eat. Famished, he staggered out the door and down the stairs to the kitchen, where he fixed for himself a humble meal of eggs and dried meat, quite similar to the very first meal he and Elian had shared together. He smiled at the tender memory, then grimaced as he realized the blond man was gone from the farm, though hopefully not his life.

As he finished eating, he suddenly felt something jolt inside him. Something strange. Something arcane. Something eldritch and unfathomable. Nevertheless, for some bizarre reason, whatever it was gave him hope, and strength. It pulled him. Pulled him towards some distant point beyond the horizon. Beyond the treeline. And somehow, some deeper, primal part of him, knew exactly what, or in this case, who, the magic was pointing him towards. He looked at the ring, surprised to see the blue stone set in the metallic band shimmering with a myriad stars within.

Jack bolted up from the chair and ran up the stairs, Glaise following him, barking, having sensed the elation in his master. The farmboy smiled at his hound and reached down to pet him before grabbing the pack he’d given Elian and swinging it over his shoulder. The ice-sword inside was a bit heavy, but nevertheless, he was going to bring it. He walked over to another corner of the room and took his shepherd’s crook in one hand. “We’re leaving the farmhouse for a bit, Glaise. Think you’re up for it?” he asked the hound.

It had been a difficult decision, but one that he made nevertheless, as he was running up the stairs. The farmhouse may have been important for him as it was one of the last remaining reminders of his parents’ endless love and dedication to one another, but he knew that both Kyle and Nyko would have wanted him to pursue his own happiness over ensuring that the happiness they had would remain remembered. Besides. He had their rings. And, for the time being, having that reminder of his fathers made the choice just a slight bit easier for the farmboy.

He was about to leave everything he had ever known behind, all for an exile prince of a faraway kingdom he had never even known about before he met Elian. He was about to leave behind everything he had ever loved, again, before he met that strange, magical creature with the power of winter on that fateful night that seemed so long ago. Surprisingly, he mused, as he negotiated himself and the bulky pack on his back down the stairs, it all felt like it was the right thing to do.

For all he knew, Elian could be in danger, and in much the same way as Elian felt about him, Jack knew he would never forgive himself if he allowed his beloved, _his_ prince to fall into peril. There was simply no way he was going to stand by and let that happen. His heart was set, and so was his mind, in mutual, unanimous agreement for one of the few times in his life. He _had_ to find Elian. Glaise was at his side. He had supplies. He had his prince’s sword. He had his crook in one hand. He had his ice. He was ready to cross mountains to get Elian back.

Jack ran towards the barn, realizing that if he left all his animals in there that they would likely die of starvation before he and Elian returned. There was grass on the property, and there was easy foraging in the woods around. He threw open the barn doors and released all his animals into his pastures. They would have to care for themselves while he was gone, but he was confident that they would be able to. Bais didn’t rise from where she was lying down by her calf, but Jack understood. In any case, he left her pen door open so that when she and her calf were ready, they could go out as well. His next goal was the stables.

There, he picked out his fastest and dearest horse, preparing him for a long day’s ride. The rest, he allowed to roam free. There was a fire burning in his limbs, and everything he was doing, each proactive action only made it burn stronger. He was leaving. He was pursuing love. He was going to have an adventure. He couldn’t help the exhilarated whoop that escaped him at that moment. Though his reasons were heavy, he was about to do something he had always wanted to do, and he couldn’t stop feeling excited at the prospect.

As he was about to gallop into the distance that his heart was calling him towards, he heard the canter of another set of hooves. Just at that moment, Sven burst through the woods, Kristoff on his back, panting and looking around wildly. He spotted Jack. “Frost!” yelled the blond Mage at the young farmboy, shaking his head. “Fool! What are you still doing here?!” The farmboy shrugged, and heard Glaise suddenly start snarling at someone. It was probably Kristoff, but he didn’t bother to look.

“I told you a storm was coming and that you needed to leave! Where is the prince?” demanded the Mage. The tone of his voice was something that Jack didn’t like, though for some reason, it made his blood run cold as it surged through his veins. Colder than usual, that is. Glaise howled and started to bound towards a point in the woods that Jack could not quite see clearly, as though there were something blurring his vision when he dared look directly in that area. “Jack!” was the last thing he heard before he heard a sickening crack.

His horse’s leg gave out from under it and Jack found himself spilling onto the ground. Everything happened so fast he didn’t have time to call the wind to save him. Instead he found himself falling. Just as he started to descend, though, he heard something fly past him with a whistle. Something razor sharp grazed his cheek, opening a gash that instantly started bleeding. There was something wrong. The wound felt like it was burning. Moments later, as he hit the ground, he heard a thunk and saw a large arrow with a smoking tip bury itself in one of the trees nearby. A second one hit right underneath it. And a third. All three arrows, it seemed, had been flying towards Jack by the time the first just barely hit. The precision of the three shots was terrifying, their implications even more so. Now, more than ever, the farmboy was certain beyond any reasonable doubt that his lover was in mortal peril. As he tried to remove his leg from the horse that had fallen on it, he silently prayed to the gods that for once, they hear him and protect his beloved.

\----------

“He’ll thank me for it someday, Bran” said Gwen, looking over Bran’s shoulder — the one that was still connected to an arm — at the ledgers that he used to keep track of the company’s inventory. She did not fail to notice the slight tremor that ran through the other commander’s body, up his torso, down his arm. The stick of charcoal he’d been using to write on the parchment snapped in half. “Oh don’t be so angry, Bran. I didn’t do anything _too_ bad.” Then the man froze, the malice just about barely evident in Gwen’s voice sending chills up his spine. It was almost as though overnight, she had snapped entirely.

He’d wondered how she would react when Elian told her about his lover, his beloved, his _betrothed_ and suddenly, he found himself wishing he would never find out. Unfortunately, it seemed as though the chance had been taken away from him entirely as she squeezed his shoulder as though expecting him to understand, as though expecting him to support her in whatever nefarious deed she had managed to concoct and put into action over the last few hours. She leaned down and brought her face by Bran’s ear. “You know, if you really wanted to make sure that message got to _Jack_ unharmed… you would have chosen your messenger more carefully. Or… perhaps, maybe you should have gone yourself.”

The charcoal in Bran’s hand crumbled, ruining a good hour’s worth of compiling reports from all the different sub-leaders of the camp about all the new stuff that they had acquired from the previous town. He was stiff, and there was a gnawing dread inside of him as he rose, Gwen following him almost too gracefully compared to how he struggled to balance himself with just his one arm. “What have you _done?_ ” he demanded, unable to control the anger and hurt that manifested itself in his voice. He had thought the ordeal with Liana had been bad, but this, this was something different altogether.

Gwen had crossed one line then, she was crossing numerous lines now. Bran was entirely thankful, for once, that the gods had given him Caedh to take away his devotion to the evidently-insane woman before him. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what he would have done to keep her happy. She merely smirked at his question. With his one hand he grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “What. Have. You. _Done?_ ” he repeated, more forcefully, with more authority, and all that he got in response was a mischievous, somewhat sinister glint in the woman’s eyes.

“Oh stop it, Bran” she said with a chuckle and a smile. “You don’t seriously believe the prince is in love with a farmboy, do you?” The fact that Gwen was making it almost seem as though what she was saying was friendly banter was even more disturbing for Bran, and the one-armed commander merely stiffened even more where he stood. “Come on. He’s royalty. He’s a gorgeous man. Do you really think he would want to be with a goat-fucking sheep-herder? Besides!” she said, gently removing Bran’s hand from her arm and tapping his cheek with a smile.

“He’s a _man_. He’s no reversal. He’s just confused, because he hasn’t met the right woman yet!” The audacity of her confidence in her unfounded claims left Bran simply slack-jawed. He had not realized that the woman’s delusion was self-reinforcing, and that it seemed, no amount of arguing could convince her of otherwise. “I _know_ for a fact he doesn’t love that farmboy. He was probably just looking for a good fuck. Led him on. So. I made it easier for him to get rid of the boy later on. I arranged for him to have a little… _accident_.”

Bran took a single step backwards, face awash in abject horror upon realizing what sort of part he had played in this scheme of hers. “No. No you didn’t” he said in denial, shaking his head rapidly from side to side as he backed away from her as though she were some dangerous beast, and in truth, in many ways, she was. She merely smiled at him instead, seemingly innocent, but palpably malicious underneath. “You were listening to us last night?” he demanded. Gwen nodded in response.

“You are _insane_ if you think he’s going to thank you for this someday. You are _insane_.” Bran brought his gauntleted hand to his face and massaged his temples. “That is not how love works, Gwen, and you know it. Stop this insanity this instant! I’m going to grab myself a horse. I’m stopping that messenger before he gets to that farmboy if it’s the last thing I do.” The woman merely clucked her tongue as Bran tried to leave the commanders’ tent, only to find the exit blocked by two of his men, with dead eyes and sinister smiles painted on their faces.

“I’d hoped you’d put me first before some farmboy you haven’t even _met_ , Bran. I’m your friend! We’ve been through so much!” It was a dirty tactic, Gwen trying to guilt Bran into joining her cause and abandon Jack to probable death. The commander merely shook his head, unwilling to endanger something as precious as he knew was shared between Jack and Elian. He’d seen it in the prince’s eyes, how they twinkled with both happiness and sadness at the thought of the farmboy.

Bran prided himself as a pretty good reader of emotion, and he was certain that Elian was telling the truth, and that his partner-in-command was completely delusional. The woman frowned at his staunch refusal and the disdainful look he shot her after she tried her emotional blackmail. She snapped at him. “Very well. I thought maybe as a friend you would have wanted to see me happy. I know Elian and I would be happy. You’re just being blind. I can’t let you stop what’s going to happen to that… _farmboy_.”

Bran glared at his partner-in-command. “No. It’s not your choice. I’m as much in command of this company of soldiers as you are and so long as I am one of its commanders, I will not stand by and allow you to perpetrate such heinous crimes.” He had never thought the day would come when he would be the one inciting mutiny against one of the camp’s commanders, but it seemed that Gwen needed her power stripped from her before anyone else got hurt.

“You will not be happy. You’re just fooling yourself. I’m giving you one last chance, Gwen. Don’t do this” the woman simply smiled at him, tilting her head and looking at him with the strangest, most terrifyingly curious and apathetic expression he had ever seen. Bran shook his head sadly. “You are insane” he growled at the woman as he tried to push his way past the two men standing in the way of the tent flap. “Move aside. I am your commander and that is an order.” The men merely grinned at him and picked him up, one of them grabbing his arm, and the other his waist, and setting him back in front of Gwen.

Before he could protest, Gwen walked up to him and ran a single finger up his chest. He swung his arm to punch her, but the woman managed to catch it and flip him onto his ass, straddling his stomach and loosening the leather straps that held his armour to his chest. She ripped the chestplate off of him and tossed it nonchalantly to one side. The steel made a loud clang that filled the tent when it crashed into the ground, probably warping as it did. “I said… I _can’t_ let you stop what’s going to happen, and, as you said, I can’t stop you as long as you’re a commander of this camp. So. I’m going to take care of business.”

Gwen smiled as she undid the straps holding the rest of Bran’s upper-body armour on him and stripped it all away, including his gauntlet. “I _had_ hoped you would help me, but I was wrong. I thought you would do anything to please me. It wasn’t until that other bug came along and made you a _reversal_ —” she spat the word with such contempt that Bran shook with the force under her.

“—that you changed. Anyway. Enough of that.” The woman kept her weight on Bran, making sure he could not budge an inch. The commander tried to worm his way out from underneath her, to no avail. This was one of the times when having a second arm would have been advantageous. Nevertheless, he was crippled, and he was no match for her, or the two other soldiers present. He was feeling desperate, and it wasn’t until he took a good long look at the men that had been blocking him did his heart sink. They were _his_ men, his and Gwen’s, they weren’t from the group that included Gython that had been almost-forcibly given to their company.

He would have understood if they were the latter. The fact that they weren’t only made his despair feel all the more absolute. “I can take care of you being a commander in this company. And don’t worry, my dear Bran, I won’t have you executed. I can however, do this.” With an authority-filled voice she intoned in words that he had hoped would never be used against him “I, Gwendolen Iyllyen, by the power vested in me by Andrew Calland, Crown of Vamara, Kinslayer and Changer of Customs, do hereby strip thee, Branden Ellöyn, of your command and titles, and find thee guilty of murder and conspiracy for the death of Gython Ythunssön.”

Bran had feared as much, and while he had a right to due process and a free trial, he had no alibi, and there were certainly witnesses of him taking Caedh and Gython out of camp that fateful day of the blademane attacks. He just threw his head back and laughed bitterly, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill forth. “I was saving Caedh from him and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I _will_ save Jack and Elian from you, Gwen. Mark my words. I will” he swore under his breath as Gwen got off of him. Before the once-commander could stagger to his feet, however, his arm was grabbed by one of the soldiers and he was roughly pulled up. The pain was immense, and he couldn’t help but slump sideways afterwards, chest heaving from the exertion and the loud groaning he’d been unable to suppress. It had almost felt as though his other arm was being torn off.

“You know what to do, boys. Strip him and throw him in the cages. After that, arrest and detain his slut as an accessory to the crime” said Gwen as she turned away from her once-friend and once-partner-in-command. She had sincerely thought he would be more sympathetic to her plight, as he had, on many occasions when he was drunk out of his mind before they embarked on this quest of theirs, professed that he would do anything to make her happy.

Professions were not promises, she reminded herself as she turned and examined the map and tried to discern the fastest way back to Vamara. Once they were there, she knew what to ask of Andrew as a reward for their successful mission: Elian’s hand in marriage. If the king decreed it, the prince would have no choice but to obey, and while he might, in the beginning, rebel against her and be disgusted by her, she knew how to make men compliant to her will. She would make him hers, make him love her and make him devoted to her, and that, above all, would make her happy. They would be the perfect couple.

\----------

The scene that followed was utter chaos, with Jack screaming in pain from his squished leg, to the horse braying in similar agony, to Glaise barking and snarling at the man in the distance, to Kristoff yelling profanities at Jack and whoever it was attacking them. With surprising strength, the Mage threw the horse off of Jack, and quickly healed the farmboy’s leg as best as he could, ducking only just in time to dodge the next arrow that flew their way. It seemed as though their attacker was not even remotely interested in Glaise who continued to attack and bite him.

Much to the hound’s chagrin, however, the man was not fazed by his sharp teeth and freezing-cold breath. There was one thing all of them knew. That man was unnatural. There was magic involved. Even Jack, who had never seen magic outside of Elian’s ice and Kristoff’s odd, nigh unfathomable power, knew that. “There is black magic at work, Jack. The blackest of arts.” He helped Jack to his feet. The farmboy grabbed his crook and called up his ice, conjuring a thick wall in front of them to hide behind as he gathered up everything that had spilt from his pack, Elian’s sword, especially.

“We have no time for that, Jack. We have to go” said the blond, urging him toward Sven, but the farmboy refused to budge from what he was doing. These were all things meant for Elian, and he wasn’t about to let some archer get in the way of him and his love. He needed everything in that pack. Every single damn thing. The Mage groaned in exasperation at Jack’s continued stubbornness. He had to protect this Shard with his life. Had to get him back with Elian. Maybe then, the Order would finally have the other half of the puzzle. When that was done all they needed to do was retrieve the two from Lycc and they could finally study the Ginnunggagap properly.

The Mage drew the glass dagger from his hat and brandished it at their foe before charging at him, using his powers of chance to deflect the arrows that were coming at him in a steady stream despite Glaise’s evident interference. When he finally reached their assailant, he realized just what kind of black magic was being used. It was the filthiest of them. Blood magic was one thing. Soul magic was another, even more nefarious, pernicious thing altogether. That was what they were up against, and it was terrifying to behold.

The man’s eyes were blood-red, though they were devoid of all emotion other than hatred and anger and pain. That was why the assailant did not even wince when Glaise sank his teeth into the man’s flesh. Whatever pain the hound could inflict could not compare to the kind of pain that was being forced on the man’s very soul. Knocking the bow out of the man’s hand, Kristoff got in close quarters and stabbed the soldier with his Yðgrnng, getting as much blood as he could on the glass blade.

The blood instantly dried and clung to the blade, welling in the carvings on the sides. The redness in the soldier’s eyes faded slightly, but not entirely. “Glaise. Come on. We must run.” He told the hound, gesturing back at Jack. It was a command that Glaise was all too glad to obey. Using his foot, the Mage snapped the bow in half before ducking out of the arc of a sword being swung at him and running back to Jack. “Get on Sven! We have to go!”

Jack shook his head and summoned his wind, flying in a circle around Kristoff before taking off in the direction that his heart called him toward. Kristoff took one look back at their assailant who seemed to be running faster than was possible for a mere mortal. He spurred Sven into a gallop after Jack, who seemed to have slowed down, the pack on his back making it difficult to navigate the woods. “Jack! Leave it behind! Your life is more important!” yelled Kristoff as he eventually overtook the farmboy.

The enemy soldier was not too far behind. The farmboy looked pained for a moment before he finally decided that the Mage was right. Better to lose all those belongings than his own life. He slipped the pack off of his shoulder and watched as it fell to the ground before speeding off after Kristoff, the only thing remaining on him were his staff and the clothes on his back. Glaise was keeping up with the reindeer, tongue lolling out from the exertion of running as fast as they could.

The farmboy glanced over his shoulder as he caught up to Kristoff only to see the soldier gaining on them. “How?” he whispered, afraid, as he soared through the air on the back of the wind that he had summoned abreast of Kristoff. The Mage simply shook his head, soul magic was one of the less-documented branches of the black arts and definitely something that was beyond the current scope of his knowledge. What he _did_ know, however, was that the first documented case of it being used occurred after the Rift was opened in Lycc, during the great war that followed. Many of the Order’s elders were in consensus that soul magic was something that came from the Ginnunggagap.

Unfortunately, many of those that practiced it died early, and the Order was never truly able to capture any of the black art’s practitioners after the war. “Kristoff!” yelled Jack, seeing what seemed to be a shimmering film in the air right before them, at the exact same moment that Sven reared up on his hind legs and stamped them down hard inadvertently throwing Kristoff through the air toward the shimmering air. Jack himself was unable to stop, and though the wind died, his momentum carried him forward. Glaise, too, followed suit. All of them, save for the reindeer, were heading inexorably toward whatever it was that was before them.

Jack opened his mouth to scream as agonizing, blinding pain ripped through his very person, but he quickly found that his voice had stopped working. Kristoff was frozen in momentary surprise, but even his face contorted in agony as soon as he touched the shimmering layer of air in front of them. The pain didn’t last very long. It was only there for an infinitesimally short moment. Then, it was gone, just as their consciousness. Tossed into oblivion. Their bodies, as they passed through whatever it was in the air before them, turned into ash that was scattered into the wind on the other side.

Sven brayed sadly, confusedly at what had befallen the three. He touched one of his antlers to the shimmering air, and the tip that touched the almost-invisible membrane, turned to ash as well. He reared up on his hind legs and galloped away elsewhere. He would find his master eventually, even if it was in another life, but he knew that to do that, he had to save himself first. He ran as far and as fast away as he could, the image of his companions turning to ash burned forever into his mind. Behind him, the soldier stopped and grinned wickedly before running back to where he’d come from. The soldier grabbed one of the horses that Jack had set free and by sheer force of will dominated the animal. As the soul magic wreathed around his body subsided, he rode back for camp, ready to deliver the glorious news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and that surprise I threw in at the end!
> 
> Tell me what you think! I'd like to know how you're feeling about the turn the story is taking.
> 
> In any case, here's the preview for next week:
> 
> _“Damn, commander—” he said the word with such vitriol that Bran had to wonder what he ever did to this man “—your ass is better than any whore’s I’ve ever seen. So. Loosen yourself up as best you can. It’s all the preparation you’ll get. I want that slut of yours to ruin you” snarled the man before walking away, all of them snorting with derisive laughter._


	25. The Pain of Loss

Bran struggled as he was carried out of the commanders’ tent, stretched between the two men, one of them holding his one arm in a tight, vice-like grip, the other, hanging on to his ankles with the same vicious grasp. Once outside, in the snow, and under the clear blue sky, the two men called for some help and two more of Bran’s men came around. They had the same blank, but somehow malicious expression on their faces. He shivered, sincerely terrified for one of the few times he’d been during this harebrained mission of theirs. He had to wonder what had happened overnight to change his men so.

He thought back to what Elian had said during their conversation the previous night before they went to bed; he was being kept in the camp by some unknown, eldritch force, an enchantment most likely placed on the one thing that Bran knew was a magical artifact in the camp: the Shard given to them by the king’s consort. He had to ponder, for a moment, as the two other men approached, that perhaps the same artifact was making his men lose their wills to something more sinister. The commander had to wonder why he wasn’t affected, and he hoped against hope that neither was Caedh.

He was snapped out his rumination by the feeling of hands removing his greaves from him. The same hands then found the collar of his tunic and ripped it apart with little regard for the fabric. It was almost as though whatever magic had made them slaves to some unknown will — probably Gwen’s, though he doubted she had the capacity to do anything of the sort, even now that she was so obsessed with Elian — had also given them inhuman strength. He tried to call out for help, but as soon as he opened his mouth, before he could yell out for anyone, the remains of his tunic were jammed so deeply into his mouth that everything came out muffled, and it felt like he had cloth for a tongue. He tried to struggle, but to no avail. His breeches soon followed, and he was sure, had there been more space in his mouth, they would have been forced in there as well, and he was left stark naked, suspended in between two men exposed to the world, and the elements. He shivered slightly in the cold air.

Then they began their march, and Bran could only look on helplessly, his pleas for help going either unheard or ignored by men he’d known for years who had all of a sudden grown distant and downright sinister. He prayed they would take him near his tent but they did no such thing, as though they had expected this from him all along. He wanted to tell Caedh to run away and take Elian with him. Knock out the prince if he had to to prevent his body from coming back to camp. Unfortunately, he did not have that choice as he was led out further from the inner-ring of tents towards a lonely corner of camp that never really saw many visitors and was just about seeing its first one in months. Bran mused that he could have dealt with Gython in this much cleaner way, throwing him in one of the cages, but it would have meant that at some point the giant would have to walk free, and for what he’d done, Bran didn’t think he deserved it. Nevertheless, the once-commander felt something inside him whimper as he set his sight on the black metal bars of the cages.

They were somewhat different from what he remembered. He hadn’t noticed what seemed to be a needle protruding out from near the cage door when they’d first received the cages. Then he realized that the cages were given to them by the king’s consort. Each one was large enough to hold two people comfortably, and of the number they had been given initially, there were three that remained. The consort had insisted that they take the cages, and Bran and Gwen had decided that they _were_ actually quite useful, unlike the four-poster bed that they had decided to ditch. For being made out of metal, the cages had actually been quite light, which should have been his first warning, Bran wondered, but he could barely do anything about it given his current condition.

The men lifted him up and pricked his middle finger on the needle. It was enough to draw blood and he watched with growing horror as the needle seemed to drink the crimson substance. The door was flung open and Bran was hurled inside, where he continued to watch with fear as instead of the door closing as it should have, it instead melded itself with the rest of the structure. There was no door. No keyhole. No latch to get out through. The cage had become seamless.

The cage, whatever it was, was made of something that wasn’t mundane. It was almost definitely enchanted metal. That much, Bran was sure. He looked around him warily, wondering if any torture devices would spontaneously erupt from the bars. The men merely watched him with amusement. He tried to remove himself from the back of the cage, but his arm and his lower back were temporarily fused with the metal and he couldn’t, hard as he tried, remove himself from his bondage.

It wasn’t until he felt cool metal start to wrap around his neck that he realized what was happening. He was being collared. In vain he tried to move, writhing his lower body as much as he could, only to eventually also be bound by his thighs and feet to the cage. When finally, the metal encircled his entire neck and created a hinged loop that then fell and clinked against the collar, he was released and he fell to the floor with a gasp, scrabbling at his neck, trying to get the damn thing off.

Bran was on his knees, trying to get a finger under the collar, to no avail as the band of black metal was perfectly fitted to his throat, just loose enough to not cause any discomfort, but just tight enough to not allow any jostling of any sort. He froze and watched in abject horror as the front of the cage pooled outwards into the hands of one of the men, depositing a set of manacles and a single length of chain made from the same black metal as well as something else that he couldn’t properly see.

The man passed the manacles to the one next to him and held out his hands for the next pool of metal that deposited a thin black bangle in his hands that he immediately put on. As soon as the bangle was secured, Bran felt a jolt inside him. It wasn’t physical, but that only served to make it feel more terrifying. “Come here” commanded one of his former men, and while his mind protested, he was instantly flooded with intense pain and his body unwillingly followed the command. He was breathing heavily, panting, when he finally reached the front of the cage after what seemed to be an eternity of pain.

“Arm” was the next curt command which Bran tried to again resist but could not, if only because of the pain and his body’s sudden lurching obeisance to rid itself of the pain. He couldn’t help the sob that escaped his lips. Everything _hurt_ and it didn’t go away until the manacle was fastened around his wrist. He’d been able to prevent his tears from streaming down his face when Gwen had forcibly stripped him of any power he could possibly have had to prevent what she was planning, but now, the pain that had ripped through him was too much.

It broke down all his barriers and he sobbed openly, praying even as he was commanded to present his feet that Caedh was safe and had the good sense to start running. He winced as he heard the clink of the chains being fastened on the manacles on his feet. Like the collar, they were perfectly fitted, and as soon as they clicked closed, they became seamless. “Cock.” Bran hesitated, eyes fluttering open in confusion at the command.

He had barely even had two seconds to process what had been said when the pain ripped through him again and he rose to his feet, the chain clanking against the floor of the cage. He thrust his pelvis forward unwillingly and a band was wrapped around the base of his cock and balls, only unlike the rest of his bonds, this one quickly grew really warm. Bran gasped, staggering towards one side of the cage as he felt arousal surge through him. “Cage is meant to humiliate and break” said the man giving orders quite simply, indifferently. “It’s not meant to kill, oh no, it’s meant as a torture of the kind that will leave you begging for us to do the most obscene things to you.”

As the soldier spoke, Bran could feel his manhood rising to full stiffness between his legs. “Welcome to your new life, slave!” said the man, cackling as he pulled Bran towards him, grabbing the once-commander’s chin. “On your knees. And make sure you’re presenting your hard cock and throbbing ass hole for everyone to see. I want Gython’s slut to see you like this when we bring him in. Show him that the _man_ that _saved_ him wasn’t really one at all!”

The sound of derisive laughter filled Bran’s ears as his body forced him to his knees, his mind beginning to agree, if only to avoid the all-consuming pain that followed being disobedient to whatever his new masters willed. He knelt before he pressed his chest to the floor and spread his legs, allowing his thick manhood to dangle between his legs, and his suddenly-twitching and itching hole to be in full view. The men behind him hooted and hollered and whistled, forcing a reddish flush to his face out of shame. Was this what Caedh felt? He shuddered, feeling horrible and wretched and dirty.

Nevertheless, his body was locked in that position, unmoving and unwilling to try because of the pain he knew would come. There was another whistle, and the man that had been giving him orders said “Damn, _commander_ —” he said the word with such vitriol that Bran had to wonder what he ever did to this man “—your ass is better than any whore’s I’ve ever seen. So. Loosen yourself up as best you can. It’s all the preparation you’ll get. I want that slut of yours to _ruin_ you” snarled the man before walking away, all of them snorting with derisive laughter.

Bran merely continued to burn in shame at the lewd display of his own body that he could do nothing about. The tears continued streaming down his face as he tried to recuperate from the trauma of his misfortune, but nothing could stop his arm as it slowly crept up his backside, finding his hole and plunging a single finger in without so much as lubrication. “Oh. And stay quiet!” came the distant command just as Bran was about to scream from the pain of penetrating himself without any preparation. His jaw snapped shut and he whimpered as his hole burned from the pain of having a finger shoved up it without even the slightest lubrication. Even his own spit had been denied to him.

He opened his mouth but no loud sounds came out, only soft groans and whimpers and whines. He trembled in anger, in shame, and in fear. He had gotten himself out of many sticky situations, but he’d always had both of his hands, and some sort of weapon, and some way to get out. He’d lost one of his arms, was weaponless, and the cage was seamless, without so much as a door to escape through. He could only hope that something would happen that would allow him to escape eventually if that was even at all possible.

\----------

“They’ve found it!” gasped the voice in the shadows, bolting wide-awake at the sensation of his enchantment finally kicking into effect. He had been lounging in a bed that might as well have been fitting for a king, but it wasn’t _really_ a king’s bed. _He_ wasn’t a king, but he was definitely in the same vein as being one. He had enough political power and influence to take over if ever the king was away on other duties or visiting other parts of his realm. Nevertheless, he cackled with glee, smoothing over his hair as he stretched his limbs, feeling the sensual rasp of his sheer, extremely revealing clothing against his skin.

He was in bed, but he quite liked the slutty outfits more, as they almost seemed to make him feel _more_ naked than in just his skin. Nevertheless, his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he could just barely make out the edge of the blanket, the silken sheets, and the perfectly soft, perfectly fluffed pillows that his back and arms were rested upon. He waved one hand and the curtains on a nearby window opened, revealing a clear night sky that had come alight with the dancing fires of heaven.

The light streamed into the small room, illuminating the man’s unnaturally pale skin and fiery-red hair. A thin, long appendage slithered through the sheets and disappeared into the small of the man’s back. He needed to control his form better, he huffed at himself, before rising to stand by the window that allowed not only the light of the sky but of the city below to filter through. The sight was depressing in the best sense of the word. The city below glimmered with light, the innumerable ice crystals that hung around its buildings twinkling in the light of the lanterns that were hung at regular intervals around the roads.

The seas nearby were themselves frozen. Massive waves caught in the act of breaking against the shore. Others further out frozen in the middle of a journey they would never complete. Beyond the icy sea, thick mist that shielded the once-great tropical paradise kingdom from the judging eyes of the world. The creature in the dark was not entirely of this world, and in many ways, believed himself to be from somewhere superior. His palace, granted to him by the king, no less, was higher up than the palace of Vamara below.

The creature wrapped its tail around itself, eyes glowing faintly red as the light was vanquished by the closing of the curtains that then chose to ripple in the slight draft that they had conjured for themselves. The undulating tail was made of something that definitively proved one fact: that this creature was not of this world. The long, thin appendage was made of segments of metal that rasped and creaked against each other as they moved. Its tip was forked, separating into two identical, deadly-sharp tips that he could change as he willed.

For now, he didn’t want to kill anyone, only inflict pain, so the forks dulled, but did not lose their tiny width. He smiled as he wove his potent soul-magic, the connection he’d established between himself and the Conduit allowing him to influence whatever was happening thousands upon thousands of miles away. He grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness for a brief moment as the magic took hold. Come morning, the every soldier in the company’s camp would be under his control save for two. Those ones were slowly falling in love, and their souls were thus protected from him.

He frowned. They would be easy enough to take care of, if not for the fact that one of them was the commander. The otherworldly creature expanded its mind through the conduit, to every consciousness not shielded from him in the camp. He then found the one that he wanted. The female. The commander. With her he wove his magic thick and strong, driving the desires and obsessions in her heart to new heights. She would have eventually reached those heights, but he wanted to get the Shard back to him as soon as possible.

He could not afford to wait. He gave her the push she needed, and set into motion a plan that would rid him of any possible resistance. One that would also leave the young exile prince’s heart and soul bare and vulnerable to his manipulation. The demon — as so many had often called his true form before they inevitably gave in to his insatiable lust and their eventual death — cackled gleefully as he realized what would very soon be in his hands once again. It was his birthright by the mother he’d chosen for this body, and he would take it back by force if need be.

The tail unraveled itself from its owner’s body and shot out across the room, wrapping itself tightly against a metal bar to which the creature in the shadows pulled himself closer. He rapped his knuckles against the black bars of the cage that held the white-haired man within. “Wake up…” said the demon in the most sultry voice he could manage, a voice that in truth, was powerful all on its own, as evidenced by the fact that the prisoner’s cock immediately leaped into full hardness before the man who owned it even began to stir.

“I said wake up!” Eyes blind to the darkness of the room instantly fluttered open, and in the silence that followed, only heavy, pained breathing could be heard. “Come to me.” He commanded. The man had no choice but to obey, even though the pain had eventually become a source of pleasure for him as well. He’d been twisted beyond belief by this creature, and yet, despite that, he believed he deserved it and in truth, reveled in the fact. “Good boy…” cooed the demon as his tail caressed the other man’s face.

“They’ve found him!” said the demon in a happy sing-song voice that the prisoner copied in a supposed-to-be-endearing high-pitched whining that made the creature grin even wider. He was happy and he was satisfied with the fruits of his labour. Now that he had everyone in the camp under his control, he could begin to dismantle the prince so that when he returned to Vamara, he would be ripe for the picking. He put the idea of asking the king for the prince’s hand in marriage as reward in the woman-commander’s head before he leaned down and brought his lips to his prisoner’s.

The man in the cage whimpered happily, chains attached to his wrists and ankles clanking as he moved to press himself against the bars. The demon reached down, knowing by instinct just where the sensitive manhood of his captive was. He stroked the member, relishing the pained whimpers of the man within. He’d been taught better than this. Told that he didn’t deserve sexual gratification. That he was inferior. That he should focus on the pleasures of those better than himself. “You’re being bad tonight, but because I’m in such a… _good_ mood, maybe I’ll finally let you cum?”

The prisoner whimpered happily, thrusting his hips forwards into his master’s hand, begging for release after what had already been years of denial. The demon was all too happy to comply with the prisoner’s desperate pleas, stroking the hard cock in his hand that was already weeping lots of pre-come. The creature touched the skimpy silk thong that was wrapped around his sizeable package and it dissolved into dust that rained down to the carpeted floor. At the same time, the curtains opened by a crack, shedding light on what he was doing. “Ah. Ah. Ah” said the demon, making the prisoner stop entirely in his thrusting.

“Be a good boy and get _me_ off first” There was an eager sound in the captive’s throat and he instantly sank to his knees, mouth open, tongue thrust out to accept the demon’s rapidly hardening member. The creature was more than happy to sink his throbbing manhood into the captive’s mouth, its weeping head feeding the prisoner with more of his addictive essence. Soon enough, the captive’s head was bobbing back and forth, slurping on the thick member with glee. “Turn around.”

There was a reason the captive only responded with whimpers and otherwise non-human sounds. He’d been trained to not ever speak with words unless told to while he wore the collar, manacles and chains, and while he was inside his cage. Instead he answered with a happy whimper and turned around, pressing his face to the floor of the cage while pulling apart his ass cheeks with his hands. He didn’t dare touch his puckered hole as he knew his master would not approve of it, since it was also a sexual organ for him, and he wasn’t allowed to pleasure himself whatsoever.

The demon sighed, lowering himself and licking at the pucker that he’d numbed before rising up, lining up his cock, and pressing in. The prisoner grunted, sexual pleasure surging through him only when the cock was fully buried inside of him. That was another way he’d been conditioned. Nothing but the meat of a man could possibly ever give him sexual pleasure in that way. The fucking was quick and brutal, with the demon ramming hard and fast into his ass, taking him higher and higher in sensual bliss. Finally, the creature grunted and came inside the captive.

Panting like a well-trained dog, and not even caring about the addictive cum dripping out of his well-abused hole, the prisoner turned around and thrust his cock out through the bars, hands wrapping around two separate ones, hoping to get the release he’d been promised. Only, he hadn’t been promised anything. The demon merely smiled inwardly with malice, planning to feed more that night to bolster his strength. He’d befriended the palace inquisitor and had earned the right to sit in torture sessions but it was very rare that anyone committed crime heinous enough for that.

The pain-feeder had to have other sources of torment to feed on. Luckily, he had this prisoner of his to use for that regularly. He stroked the captive at a rate that left him tearful in pain from the friction, but nevertheless, still eager to cum after years. He brought the prisoner to the very edge, the precipice of orgasm, but he never quite allowed the captive to get over that wall. He then drew back and threw open the cage, dragging the captive out of the cage. The prisoner made a scared sound, whimpering an apology for daring to think of his own pleasure.

“That’s right. How dare you think of yourself. You don’t deserve it, fucker” said the creature, throwing the captive down and putting his foot forward. “It was a test!” spat the demon with disgust, as the pathetic captive crawled closer and started to lick his foot, tongue grazing the individual toes before sliding up the arch and partway up his master’s leg. “That’s right. That’s your place.” The prisoner continued licking the feet lovingly, trying his best to alleviate his master’s anger, and maybe escape the punishment he knew he was going to receive. “Up.” He rose without question and stood in the manner he’d been prescribed, back slightly arched, legs slightly apart, hips thrust forwards with cock hard for inspection.

The creature grabbed his member and squeezed tightly, eyes sparkling in delight as he made a pathetic groan in the sharp pain that stabbed through his groin. The pain-feeder then conjured more chains from the cage that strung themselves through a loop in the ceiling. He connected the chain to the length between the prisoner’s wrists. It provided the desired effect of raising the captive just barely above the floor, the strain in his arms causing him delicious pain.

The pain-feeder used his long, thin tail to whip the prisoner, punctuating every slash with deriding insults, reinforcing his training, reinforcing his conditioning to feeling inferior in private. The man he was torturing needed to act superior outside of their bedroom, but nevertheless, he was to be completely submissive with the demon. Each crack of the demon’s tail traced two extremely thin welts across the suspended prisoner’s pale back. The curtains continued to draw apart wider with every groan of pain, with every whimper, with every pleading whine. The demon was relentless, whipping without mercy.

Back, front, legs, arms, faces, cock. By the time the punishment was over, the captive had hundreds of shallow bleeding gashes all over his body, and he was weeping inconsolably, babbling without words, and whimpering for mercy. The demon drank in the delicious pain before stepping up to his captive and making sure to stem the bleeding. After all, he had no use for a dead plaything. The creature lapped up the blood from a cut in the man’s cheek and cooed comforting words at him. Even those words were demeaning, treating the man as nothing more than an animal.

It was enough. The captive’s bright blue eyes snapped open, watery but grateful for his master stopping and telling him he was good for enduring the pain that he had just endured. The demon smiled as the dancing light of the sky illuminated both of their faces. The captive’s shockingly blue eyes were wide open in conditioned pleasure from the kiss. They were very much like Elian’s. Glimmering in the light that streamed through the windows. The only difference was that one of them had a long white scar running down his face.

\----------

While the fiasco with Bran carried out a decent distance away, Elian and Caedh were talking quite happily to each other, the prince, grateful for the pleasant conversation, the once-watchman grateful for the companionship and the lack of judgment, and the abundance of acceptance that seemed to radiate from his prince. If he had the right to choose, he would definitely choose this man before him to sit on the throne of Vamara than his brother. There had been rumours, terrible tales of what went on in the palace of their homeland, but Caedh thought it prudent not to mention it to Elian lest the prince think that the once-watchman was merely trying to sully the reputation of his brother. Even if none of the more outlandish tales about demons and torture and whippings were untrue, Andrew had quickly gained a reputation as being no less a cruel leader than his father, if only marginally better in regards to his raising of the status of reversals in society. They were no longer outcasts in the kingdom, and any who dared speak out against them were quickly and very painfully eliminated. Nevertheless, very little had changed when Andrew took over, and there was still the unspoken thirst for war that hung in the air.

Caedh was snapped out of his reverie, jumping very nearly out of his skin in startlement at the feeling of Elian reaching out and clasping the once-watchman’s hands in his own. “Hey. Caedh” said the prince with a soft kindness that was natural to him, that anyone who knew even a fraction of what he’d gone through to reach the present day would find surprising. Nevertheless, he was kind, and he was warm, and he was very much like the close friend that Caedh had always wished he would have. “What were you thinking of? Are you alright?” asked the prince, concern for the once-watchman a pleasant, albeit surprising, tone in his voice. Caedh looked at his prince for a moment, uncertain how to respond, unsure what to say. In the end he just shook his head, expression softening as he did. He looked down at the floor, thinking for a moment how differently his life had taken him after embarking on this mission to find the prince. He’d been a soldier with a wife and children before he left, now he was a physicians’ apprentice, submissive to the one-armed commander Bran, and an entirely changed man.

“It’s nothing, Elian…” said the once-watchman, the name of his prince rolling off of his tongue with some difficulty as he had not entirely grown accustomed to leaving out the courtesy of addressing nobility by title in his speech. He turned and looked at the prince whose brow was slightly furrowed, concern evident on his face, pain and uncertainty at not being around Jack as well as hope after Bran’s offered help just under the surface but still palpable. “I was only thinking of how my life has changed since I departed Vamara.” The prince mouthed a silent _‘Oh’_ at him, and he smiled. “I used to have a family. A wife. Children” Elian raised an eyebrow. There was more to the submissiveness that Caedh showed Bran than he had thought, than he had been told. “I can’t go back to them now, not after what Gython did to me. I never liked my wife, though. I only married her for my father. As for my children, I find myself wishing I could say goodbye to them one last time. Tell them where their father is going…” Elian cocked his head at the once-watchman, curious and sympathetic. “It’s why I understand how you feel with your love” said Caedh, returning the sympathetic smile on Elian’s face.

The prince reached over, grabbed the once-watchman’s shoulder and squeezed it gently in a show of solidarity. They sat there for a moment in silence, in mutual sympathy, empathy, even, and it was a good time. Elian only wished that Jack were there to make it a great time, he knew that the farmboy would sympathise with the once-watchman was well. There was very little time for comfortable thoughts because almost as soon as Elian pondered them, there was a loud scuffle outside and some raised voices. Both his and Caedh’s heads whipped around to face the tent-flap outside which there seemed to be a couple of men gathered, roughhousing amongst themselves. Four men burst into the tent, sending Elian scrambling to his feet. He was in his mortal form. He’d only just been showing Caedh the capabilities of the ring that Jack had given him. Before he could turn back, to gain access to his ice, there were hands restraining both his wrists, preventing him from doing anything.

The prince kicked and struggled to no avail. These men were much stronger than him. They were trained soldiers. Hardened by years on the road, and by innumerable battles that Elian’s father before him had sent them to. Even pulling at his arms only seemed to serve to lift him off the ground. Such was the strength of the grip of the soldiers that were holding him. They barely even budged when Elian kicked them, and kick them he did, often, with all his strength, in the area of their bodies he knew they were supposed to be most vulnerable. That was when he first noticed that something was off. Even with repeated, powerful blows to the groin, none of the soldiers seemed to be fazed. Then, the prince looked up into the faces of his captors, and sure enough, there was a reddish haze hanging in front of their eyes, and twinned, twisted malicious smiles were etched on their otherwise emotionless faces. Nevertheless, Elian continued to kick and struggle. It was all he could do, futile as it proved. It quickly became apparent that he was doing more damage to himself. He was wearing out, and his legs were beginning to get sore from the exertion.

Caedh was cowering in one corner, though it seemed that he was the primary target of the men that had so unceremoniously interrupted his conversation with the prince. They were all looking at him, with their unsettling gazes and wicked smiles. Unlike Elian, he didn’t see the haze of red around the soldiers’ eyes, but he felt uneasy nonetheless. Without much effort, as the once-watchman did not struggle as much as Elian did, both because he was too afraid of repercussion, and because if he was stupid, the men might very well hurt the prince. He kept still and hung his head submissively as he was jerked to his feet. “Your _master_ ” said the man, saying the word with contempt that made Caedh wince. He didn’t like other people using the word. He wanted it to be something between _only_ himself and Bran. He wasn’t in a position to be indignant about what had just been said, however. “…Well, the _once-commander_ has been thrown into the cages. Murdered Gython. Could you believe it? You’re going to join him. You’re an accessory to the crime. And you’re going to _ruin_ him.”

The once-watchman’s eyes, at the exact same time that Elian’s did, widened in shock, indignation, outrage, and a mix of other emotions that he couldn’t process in the heat of the moment. He started struggling, but it was far too late, the men had already seized his wrists and his ankles in much the same way that they had Bran. He opened his mouth, but before he could, another person entered the tent. It was Gwen, who walked into the space with a seductive swing in her hips and a wink at Elian who glared at her in anger and disgust. For the time being she ignored him and stalked over to Caedh, running a single finger down the side of his face. “You… You turned my Bran against me…” she said, the expression on her face unreadable save for the utter lack of sanity in her eyes. “If we weren’t such good friends, I would kill you, but you’re precious to him… More than you know…” There was a momentary spark of hope and happiness in Caedh’s eyes, but the woman found it irking and immediately set out to quash the hope.

“Instead… I am going to use _you_ to break him. You’ll make him think you’re only using him. You’ll make him think you never loved him. And with his heart broken into a thousand pieces, he will come crawling back to me” she said with a voice that seemed as though she were talking to an infant, or an otherwise dull man. She smiled at the look of horror on Caedh’s face, and the determination that replaced it. He was not going to do as she asked. She may threaten to kill him, she may threaten to kill Bran, but he would gladly sacrifice his master’s life to save him from this… this… this bitch. The once-watchman bared his teeth and snarled at the woman, an action that drew a chuckle from her. “He’s taught you how to have a backbone. How adorable” she said, then ripping a strip of cloth from the once-watchman’s tunic and stuffing it into the man’s mouth so that he couldn’t say anything to her. “You _will_ do as I say. You _will_ break him. You _will_ make him believe you are the most evil creature on this planet…” the smile on her face was nothing short of malicious.

“And as punishment because you turned him against me, you will be aware of every moment, but you won’t be able to do a thing. Won’t be able to say anything. Won’t be able to do anything I don’t wish you to. You will be a prisoner in your own body, and that, my dear sweet little thing, is delicious torment enough” Gwen said as she motioned for one of the men holding Elian, who passed his other wrist to the other man, to rip the clothes from Caedh’s back. It was fast enough as the once-watchman wore no armour, unlike his master and commander. “From what I know of what you’ve become, pet, is that this torment will be a fate worse than death for you” she said, blowing him a kiss as she walked outside and beckoned the man holding Elian to follow her. The prince struggled vainly as he was carried outside, the last image he saw of the inside of the tent being a naked Caedh, slung between two men, tears streaming from his eyes. The prince was afraid. Caedh was afraid. With his mind, though he knew it was nothing more than something to help him deal with the situation, Elian reached out and extended a hand to the once-watchman in solidarity.

Much to his surprise something answered. It was Caedh’s mind. As he was brought ever closer to the commanders’ tent, he took one last look back. He saw Caedh, looking straight at him, determination burning in the once-watchman’s eyes. Elian steeled himself and grasped the hand in his mind. He squeezed it in reassurance. It squeezed back. _We’ll be alright_. He said to the once-watchman. It was at that moment that he noticed there were others drifting around in the space of thought. They manifested themselves as pinpricks of light. Elian gasped audibly, though Gwen didn’t care enough to look back at him. In his mind’s eye, there was a sparse sea of stars around him. Each consciousness, glimmering in the darkness of his thoughts. He reached out and found all of them in pain. All of them, confused. He did for them the same thing he did for Caedh. He offered a hand. All of them took it. All of them. The prince breathed deeply and reassured each and every one of those other minds that they would find a way out of their prisons. Then, the connection was severed by the disgusting feeling of womanly lips against his own.

#####

Elian was still feeling disgusted even a good long while after Gwen stopped kissing him and trying to force her tongue through his unyielding lips. He was absolutely revolted, and angry at how the seemingly pleasant woman had suddenly turned so vile, so malefic. The prince bared his teeth to show his fury, unwilling to add fuel to the fire as she stared at him with that same eerie, obsessive, blank look that she had fixed him with the previous night when it seemed that everything was still fairly normal in camp. The only difference was the faint red haze that hung before her eyes. It was the same for all the men in the camp that seemed to be under some kind of spell. He tried reaching out to their consciousnesses again, but found himself blocked. He could only hope Caedh was finding some strength some other way while Elian could not offer it. The woman-commander had offered him a chair, told him he could take a seat, and then promptly commanded her lackeys to force him to sit, which they did by pressing on his shoulders, and tie him up, which they did with similar brutality.

They were just sitting there, Gwen in front of Elian, Elian in front of Gwen, one of them staring like a demonic lovestruck puppy, the other glaring with what seemed to be the pure, unmitigated fury of a winter storm. Anyone perceptive enough would have noticed the temperature in the tent dropping steadily with every passing moment, every heartbeat, every drawn breath. The two guards that were standing by Elian were beginning to feel the effects of his anger, potent even when he did not have complete access to the ice that dwelt at his core. He was the largest shard of the Coldsnap incarnate, and he had a disproportionate amount of its power. The primal ice was difficult to contain, and even the ring could only mitigate the most volatile part of it. The rest was making itself felt. The guards swayed unsteadily on their feet, though they still didn’t seem fazed. They still watched unerringly. The tension was broken when another soldier, bleeding through a deep gash in his abdomen and numerous other cuts all over his body that seemed to have refused to close, stumbled into the tent with a grin. The man staggered to Gwen’s side, leaning over and whispering in her ear something that made the smile on her face creep even wider.

“Well done. Now. Go seek help for your wounds” she commanded the soldier, who curtsied before her and slowly backed out of the tent, clutching the gash in his abdomen that continued to leak his lifeblood. He did not have the haze before his eyes, but it seemed to Elian that the man was doing everything willingly. He felt nothing but anger and loathing against that man. How could any sane person possibly follow the evidently-insane woman in front of him of their own volition? The blond shook his head before resuming the glare that he had fixed Gwen with for the last little while. The unwavering smile on her face was unsettling. There was a malicious glee that glittered in her eyes alongside what seemed to be a mad confidence that what she had done was right. The prince’s hands felt clammy and he couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his body at that very moment. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. “Oh my dear prince, my _love_.” He spat at the word. “You will someday thank me for what I’ve done.”

Elian’s eyes widened, and he feared the worst. He did not think it was possible. Jack was, if not as powerful as he in the ice, much more resourceful and nimble. It was impossible that the farmboy could have been taken down by a mere mundane soldier, but the twisted happiness gleaming in the commander’s eyes made his faith in his beloved waver. She walked closer to him and knelt before him, cupping his chin in her hands and pressing her lips against his again. He still refused to yield. His lips remained pursed. His eyes continued burning with rebellion against her wishes. It all just seemed to amuse her. She chuckled and withdrew, tracing the line of his jaw with a single finger. “You were just confused…” she said, as though to soothe him, as though to tell him it was alright to have been ‘confused,’ as she put it. “You didn’t really love him. You didn’t really want to be his. You’re a prince. Peasants don’t deserve you…” every word only served to contribute to the growing dread deep within Elian’s breast, but for some reason, they also locked his throat, preventing him from protesting.

“I did you a favour” she said, with a look that was almost expectant, as though she expected him to thank her already for whatever it was that she had done. “I overheard you talking with Bran and that whore of his last night, and I heard of my one-armed friend’s plan to help.” Elian’s heart sank. How could he have not seen it coming? He should have been more watchful of his tongue. While he trusted Bran and Caedh, tents were not really the best at keeping conversations private. “Don’t worry my dear prince…” she said, with a smile. “I know you meant to tell him you didn’t really feel anything for him. That he was just a quick fuck because you were feeling a bit lonely.” Elian opened his mouth in protest but no words came out. There was fear in him that was paralyzing him. He didn’t know why, but it did. “So that’s what I told the messenger to tell him. That you never loved him. That he was just a fuck to you. That you would never stoop to the level of a dirty peasant like him.” She stroked his jaw again.

“I know you think that’s insane right now, but trust me, my dearest, that’s how you really feel deep inside. I just _know_ it.” The prince vehemently shook his head ‘no,’ but it only served to make her chuckle in amusement. Her delusion was self-reinforcing. His protestations, like his struggle against the ropes that bound him, were fruitless. The only ears they would fall on were deaf ones. “We’ll be happy together someday! You and I will have many children, and we will rule Vamara fairly!” The woman was more delusional than Elian had thought, and while he wanted to tell her that there was no world in all of existence where that would be possible, he knew it was useless. Instead he saved his energy, but his fury was building, and if only he could jostle the ring a bit, turn it to its proper side, he could end her instantly. She had lied to his lover about him. She had told Jack that Elian never loved him. That, above all made him angry beyond anything. “Oh stop pouting my lovely prince, it makes you look horrible. Of course we’ll be happy someday… now that I’ve gotten rid of my competition.”

Elian’s blood stopped in his veins, and all he could feel at that moment was the rapid throbbing of his heart, every beat sending an ever-intensifying throb of all-consuming pain that began at his temples and quickly spread to the rest of his body. He finally found his voice again. “You. Got. Rid. Of. Him?” he asked, voice flat and monotone, betraying the shock, grief, and anger that raged within him, the likes of which he’d never felt before. “YOU. KILLED. JACK?!” he demanded, the fury in his heart finding its way to the words that spilled forth from his lips. His eyes were burning with even more hatred for this wretched woman in front of him than even the men that had used him, raped him in front of the farmboy, even more than the men who came before _those_ that took advantage of him for years. They had not killed his beloved. They had not looked so happy about it. They had not torn his heart clean out of his chest, only to play with it and caress it like it belonged to a their lover. Despite the ferocity in Elian, the woman seemed unfazed.

“ _I_ didn’t, but the man I sent did. Killed him and burned the body to ashes” the woman grinned. Even if somehow, the prince found a way to revive the dead, he could no longer do it for his lover. The farmboy was ash in the wind. Spread across the farmstead he’d grown up on, the farmstead he’d met his love on. “Smile, my sweetest. We’ll be happy. You’ll learn to love me. You’ll be mine… Just give it time. Now you don’t have to be confused like the poor little thing that found his way to my camp last night. Now you can have me all to yourself.” Elian found a strength in himself he had not thought was in him. The prince tugged at the ropes, and all of a sudden, they felt like mere hairs and they tore apart with ease. He twisted the ring on his finger, a howling wind rising all about him, shards of ice tearing the guards beside the chair to shreds before they could even react to him breaking free of his bondage. His eyes were glowing with the menacing, scornful light of the vengeful moon and from his hands surged the furious winds of most bitter Winter.

He raised his arm, ice gathering around it to create a massive scythe and brought it down with all the strength he could bring to bear. It never found its mark. The weapon shattered into innumerable tiny crystals of ice that showered down on Gwen before it hit. Elian himself sank to the ground, eyes open, tears flowing freely, hand clutched to his chest that felt as though there was a dagger that was thrust into it. The pain of loss was physical. His ice, when it had returned, had almost instantly recognized that its other half, the part that had found its way into Jack, was gone from this world. “NO!” he screamed, the force of his words blasting the canvas of the commanders’ tent to shreds, sundering the ropes that held the tent upright, bringing the whole damnable thing crashing down on himself and Gwen. “NO!” he screamed again, a massive pulse of wind racing out from him as he slammed his fist on the frozen ground, throwing up snow in a ring around him. He screamed a third time, very nearly flattening all the nearby tents.

He screamed a fourth time, though his voice was no longer whole, and no more than a breathless rasp escaped his throat. As the tears fell from his face and turned to droplets of ice as they clinked against the frozen ground. The young prince rammed his fists repeatedly into the ground, the force of each punch cracking the earth and summoning jagged spikes of ice from the depths of his soul. They rose from the ground and impaled anyone unfortunate enough to be in the area clean through, yet somehow, they all avoided Gwen. The ice that Elian was calling forth was streaked with inelegant, chaotic cracks and streaks of red and black, fear, anger, and grief. He tried to reach out with his soul. He tried to call out to Jack, but the Shard within him heard no answer from its partner. The pain intensified. It consumed the exile prince, seared him to the bone with such power that not even the bleeding, exposed bone of his knuckles could compare to the pain he felt in his very essence. He curled up, wishing the pain away, wishing to wake up from this horrid nightmare. He didn’t. His mind slammed down walls around his being to prevent any tampering as he faded from the conscious world, buried in his grief and his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry this chapter is a bit raw, but I'll return to it in the near future and refine it. That being said, we're nearing the closing of this arc of the story. Summer Snows will wrap up in a handful more of chapters.
> 
> The next arc will contain lots of political intrigue and a lot of stupidity from Elian and Jack's respective sides. That being said, what do you think of the story so far? Do you like it? Please comment!
> 
> I'm not sharing any spoilers for next week's chapter, this week! Don't worry, it's written and entitled "The Commander and His Watchman" but that's all I'm willing to say! >:]


	26. The Commander and His Watchman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: IMPLIED HETEROSEXUAL INTERCOURSE IN CHAPTER. SHIELD YOUR EYES. >.

Caedh had had a burst of confidence and determination sparked within him by the look he and Elian had shared just before the prince was taken into the commanders’ tent, but even that was quickly lost when the mental link between the two of them was severed. “You might be fucking your _master_ , bitch, but I think we need to remind you of your place, so you don’t forget when you do” growled one of the men carrying him before dropping him on the ground where he lay motionless for a moment, afraid of what they would do to him.

“On your knees” commanded the man, and Caedh scrambled to obey. He wanted to help Elian and he wanted to help Bran, but he wasn’t going to be able to do any of that if he was dead, and judging from the sheer strength of their grips, the men were probably capable of ending him with their bare hands. He soon found himself kneeling before the man that had commanded him, bare ass settled on the heels of his feet, hands folded on his thighs. The man grabbed him by the chin and pulled him up so that he was bent only at the knees. Then the man nudged his legs apart with his foot.

The once-watchman kept his eyes fixed on the ground, but that did not save him from hearing the ties on the man’s breeches being pulled loose. He watched as the cloth hit the frozen ground and winced when he felt the thick, flaccid member being placed on top of his head, rubbing against his hair. “Beg for it” said the man, sparking an anger in the once-watchman that he would never have been capable of had it been Gython that gave the command before he met Bran.

Caedh raised his eyes and glared at the man that towered before him, meeting the soldier’s seemingly-blank eyes with a barely-contained fury. He gasped when the next thing he knew, his left ear was ringing and he could barely hear out of it. His cheek felt as though it was on fire. His eyes were watery with tears from the pain. The soldier had slapped him with all his might and it had sent the once-watchman sprawling on the snow. “I’ll give you one more chance. Beg for it, whore.” With a whimper, Caedh struggled back to his knees.

He looked up at the man again, but this time with his best pleading look. “Please ram your cock down my greedy throat…” he whimpered, the words reminding him of his captivity under Gython. The cock that was rested on his face began to thicken as it slowly became engorged with blood. “Please… I’m just a lowly slut. Use me. Show me my place. Please…” Once, the words may have been necessary, and he embraced them if only to prevent the pain that Gython would invariably inflict on him if he didn’t say them, but now they were disgusting. They were a reminder of his debasement at the hands of the giant.

The man smiled as his cock continued to engorge. “Please let me suck your superior manhood” the tears in Caedh’s eyes threatened to spill over but he had no intention to cry in front of these men. He wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction. “Let me guzzle down your virile seed… It’s what whores like me need…” He blinked away tears as the cock on his face dribbled pre-cum on his forehead. The soldier absentmindedly began to slide his member up and down the once-watchman’s face and he whimpered as some of the slippery substance got into his eye.

“That’s better” said the man, grinning widely as Caedh jumped, startled, when another man grabbed his hips. “Since you begged for it so nicely…” said the soldier, pressing the cockhead to then once-watchman’s lips. Caedh knew well enough not to open his mouth until the command was given. That was something Gython had taught him. He resented the man that was forcing him to relive that horrible time from which the one-armed commander had saved him, but he was powerless to do anything. “Suck.”

Caedh opened his mouth and give the glans a lick, eliciting a low moan from the man that was towering above him. He suckled the head, revulsion tearing through him at the taste of the salty pre-cum. It wasn’t long before, impatient, the man rammed his entire member down the once-watchman’s throat. Fortunately for Caedh, this was something that Gython had done to him many times, and he was more or less used to the rough treatment. It did not mean that he enjoyed it however, as he very nearly choked on the stiffness that was suddenly, unceremoniously shoved in its entirety down his gullet.

He tried to scream, but no words could make it past the slab of man meat in his mouth when the soldier that had grabbed his hips suddenly rammed his own cock up the once-watchman’s ass. He was not as large as Gython or Bran, for that matter, but it was still uncomfortable being pierced without any prior preparation. Simultaneously, and in an almost-mechanical manner, the two men that were fucking him from both ends, began to thrust into him. His mind was rebelling but his body was slowly beginning to respond, having been unable to shake off the conditioning that Gython had imposed on it. Unwillingly, he moaned around the cock in his mouth, cock twitching and asshole squeezing around the stiffness buried in it.

The man fucking him stood up and lifted Caedh’s body with him, continuing to thrust into the once-watchman’s well-abused hole as he did. Caedh’s nose was buried in the sparse bush of the other man’s groin, breathing in, against his will, the manly musk of the soldier. At the same time, it prevented him from seeing the other man who had stripped down and lay underneath him, cock straining and ready. “You are not allowed to cum” ordered the soldier whose cock he was sucking, though the once-watchman doubted that he would be able to despite the arousal that his body was experiencing as a result of his treatment at Gython’s hands.

Caedh didn’t _want_ to cum, anyway. He did not want to succumb to the mere pleasures of his body. He wanted to bind his own feelings inextricably with his arousal, and even the response of his body to this forced-consent violation was betraying that goal of his. His cock twitched and a glob of pre-cum dribbled down on the man lying underneath him, waiting for the one fucking him to drag him back to the ground.

Both the man he was sucking and the man ramming his opposite end started to kneel in perfect synchronicity. Caedh was taken aback by the movement, surprised, only to find another cock pressing insistently at his hole. He fully expected the other to retreat, but instead, both the soldier already fucking him and the one lying underneath him pushed in with all their might.

The once-watchman’s screams from the pain of their simultaneous entry were muffled by the thick cock in his mouth. His ass felt as though it was burning, he felt as though he was being split in twain. It didn’t matter that one of the cocks continued pressing on his prostate, forcing seminal fluids out of him, the pain was intense. His member lost its turgidity, and the tears he had been fighting for so long to keep back began to fall unrestrained. He knew he was going to bleed if they weren’t more careful but in an unexpected show of mercy, neither of the men inside his ass moved until he had adjusted to them.

It was only then that Caedh realized that they wanted his body to enjoy this torment, so that he was, as they said ‘ _put in his place_ ’ as a subservient pet for superior men. He could feel his body giving in, his manhood slowly engorging itself with blood, but in his mind he held on to the words of Bran and the promise that the commander had made him that he would never have to do anything like what Gython made him do if he didn’t want to. He was not going back to that life.

Caedh growled inwardly. He may have been a changed man, and the giant may have awakened in him a craving for submission that he had not known existed there before, but he was not a slave. Not anymore. Bran had made sure that he knew that. His submission would be willful, and these men did not deserve it. Only one person did: his master, his commander, and hopefully, future lover. Bran. He steeled himself, fucking himself on both the cock in his throat and the two cocks in his ass. He wanted this debasement to finish, they weren’t going to break him. Not again.

Soon enough, the once-watchman felt the cocks in his ass and mouth simultaneously swell and begin to spurt their filthy seed into him. He swallowed every drop from the man in his mouth, knowing that that was probably what was expected of him. The two in his ass pulled out with a sickening squelch after which the once-watchman instantly felt a trickle of warm seed down his thigh. He didn’t bother to clench his hole to keep any of it in. He tried, however, and found himself unable to fully close his back entrance.

Caedh looked up and saw that a small crowd had gathered around them, and he whimpered when he felt another two soldiers enter his backside. He jumped when he felt ropes of sticky cum paint his back, and he closed his eyes just in time as the man he had been sucking moved out of the way and his face was plastered with the cum of a number of other men that had been pulling on their members since the small display had begun. The once-watchman felt heat climb into his face from the humiliation, but he remained strong. He wasn’t going to let them break him.

He glanced at the commanders’ tent with a growing desperation for the young prince. He felt that something was amiss, that something had gone wrong. Caedh just sighed as the cum dried on his face. He was picked up by the men again, and it was just as he was being carried to the far edge of camp where the cages were situated, that Elian began to scream. For once, the once-watchman started to struggle, but it was to no avail.

He was held fast, and he was inexorably approaching the same cell that was holding the once-commander. The once-watchman felt a growing dread in his chest as they approached, and then he gasped, as he saw the state which his master was in. His eyes first saw the manacles around his feet, the chain that dangled between them. Then, his eyes were drawn up by a dribble of pre-cum from the once-commander’s weeping cock. Bran’s face was shoved into the floor of the cage, his ass raised in the air by his knees. His one hand was around his back, fingering his hole that was already open and winking whenever it wasn’t being pushed into.

The once-watchman whimpered, his cock hardening despite himself. There was a part of him that just wanted to stick his tongue into that hole, some part of him that wanted to gently, lovingly, push into it with his manhood. He knew that wasn’t what was going to happen, not if the men holding him had their way. He gulped, hoping against hope that the commander would be able to fight him. He was alright with getting hurt, so long as he didn’t do to his master the same thing that the giant had done to him.

\----------

There were many schemes unfolding around Elian, the least of which, even, he had not the faintest idea involved him. The pain that had cut through him, searing his soul, blazing through his mind with agony unparalleled by anything he had ever felt before, was just another part of a plan by one demonspawn, a pain-feeder who had managed to wrap its sinister influence tight around his painfully naive brother. He had fallen into a trap, walked right into it with his heart on a silver platter, but the creature thousands upon thousands of leagues away had not anticipated one thing: the power of his Shard.

The piece of the Coldsnap within the prince was far and away superior to the demon’s own power even though both stemmed from the same realm. Because of this, instead of allowing the demon to seize control of the prince, he was shut out by the immense walls of ice that the Coldsnap slammed around the slumbering soul of the prince. When the pain of loss had burned its trail of agony through the young man, the ice at his core dragged his soul into the depths of its power, where Hans’ black arts would have no hope of getting at it. Nevertheless, the damage had been done, and while his soul was safe, his body was vulnerable, for the time being at least, to the horrible creature’s nefarious schemes.

Elian was in the tent that he’d been given, the same tent that the company had carried around for the entirety of their mission in the hopes that they would find him eventually. He was levitating above the mats that had been laid out for him, barely a foot away from the sheets, naked as the day he was born. His head was flung back, his arms crossed over his chest. His hair of pale gold was splayed behind him, undulating in the air as though it were in water. His lips were pursed, his nostrils flared, his eyebrows drawn and knotted together as though he was frowning with all his strength. The truth of his condition was revealed only by his eyelids, squeezed shut from the turmoil raging in his soul, his eyes underneath visibly darting from one side to the other as he tried to escape the throbbing agony that had settled itself in his heart.

The prince’s wrists and ankles were wrapped in what seemed to be manacles made of dark, jet-black ink, with chains of runes drawn onto his skin, down his arms, and up his legs, pooling together in the small of his back. The ink thrummed with the same beat as the splint of wraithbone that was levitating in front of Elian’s crossed arms, its surface dappled with blues and purples, pinpricks of starlight dancing over and through it. The wraithbone was alive, pulsating with power to the tempo of the inaudible music that permeated the wild magics of the void.

Every so often, with no rhyme or reason much like the innate chaos of the primal magics that comprised Elian’s ice, tendrils of pale blue like the prince’s eyes detached from his body, escaped his nostrils, and wrapped themselves around the wraithbone. Gwen was nearby, watching with fascination and impatience as the tendrils drifted lazily through the air, swirling around the wraithbone before then being drawn towards the Shard, protected behind a thick glass dome.

The physical manifestations, the tendrils, of Elian’s magic were ethereal, and they passed through the glass dome as though it was not there. Within, they wrapped themselves around the Shard, glittering with what seemed to be innumerable tiny crystals of ice, before being absorbed into the ancient artifact, making it pulse with life before dying down to wait for the next tendril.

The Shard seemed to be an unassuming piece of a flower’s petal, and would have easily passed as such, if not for its colour, a hue indescribable by words, and only marginally by sensations and emotions. The gloom of a snowy day, the blinding light of a sunny winter morn, the cool of a chill winter night, the crisp smell of the first frost, the relief of the thaw… In truth, even these failed to describe the beauty of the Shard, capable of driving mortals that dared stare at it for too long to insanity and uncontrollable desire to obtain it. It glittered as the magic of the demon worked on siphoning the protection from around Elian, casting dancing lights about the tent.

The commander was getting impatient, and she tapped her feet, arms crossed, as she watched the painfully slow process by which the wraithbone was sapping Elian’s defenses away from him. While Gwen had been pushed in the right direction by the King’s consort, using the obsession that the long journey had nurtured within her, she, unlike the others, still maintained her volition. It was, in much the same way as his underestimation of the power of the Coldsnap, an immense miscalculation on the part of the Consort. Disregarding the voice that screamed in her head to stop, the commander walked up to the floating Elian and with a swing of her arm, knocked the wraithbone out of the air.

The woman fell to her knees, clutching her temples and blocking her ears, as an indescribably powerful shriek erupted from the priceless magical artifact as it shattered against the frigid ground. It was an ululating wail that seemed to come from the fabric of reality itself, and, had she not had her eyes squeezed shut from the pain of the scream surging through her ears, she would have noticed the fragments of the wraithbone get swallowed by a tiny rift right where it had shattered. The men posted outside sank to their knees as well, falling face-forward onto the ground and throwing up identical puffs of the shallow layer of snow that had gathered there.

The commander managed to rise to her feet, though not without much difficulty, as her ears were still ringing from the sheer volume of the shriek. Her one hand was affixed to her temples, rubbing them to rid them of the immense headache and the painful throbbing that had settled itself in her head. With a pained grunt, she grabbed the prince’s shoulders roughly, ignoring the tongues of onyx flames that spurted from between her fingers where they touched Elian’s skin. The spell that held the prince aloft resisted, the runes inked into the young man’s skin vibrating with magic as they prevented Gwen from pulling the prince down. The commander had had enough of all the ceremony and needless ritual that she had had to do so far. She wanted the prince, and she wanted him now.

She was prepared to gain the ire of an incredibly powerfully arcane creature in order to have the prince’s love. Gwen was simply beyond the point of caring. That had been the pain feeder’s mistake, as he had foolishly just incited even greater obsession within her, failing to plant the seed that would allow him to take control of her will. Nevertheless, she wanted to bind the prince to her side for all eternity, and there was only one way that she knew she could do achieve that end by.

With a final scream of frustration, the commander tore the spell that held the prince in the air apart. Dusky flames momentarily swirled in the air where Elian had just seconds ago been levitating. They followed the pattern of the ink on the prince’s skin, the ink that, it seemed, had been left suspended in the air when Elian was torn away from the enchantment. Much in contrast to the way she tore him from the spell that bound him, the commander pressed him to the bed with gentleness reminiscent of a concerned lover. She set the prince’s head with great tenderness on a pillow, wanting to make sure that her beloved was comfortable despite being in an emotionally-induced coma.

When Elian was finally settled back on the bed, she watched him. His face was still contorted from the emotional distress that was raging in his soul in his innermost sanctum, yet even so, his knotted eyebrows, and his squeezed-shut, but wildly dashing eyes, were nevertheless still more beautiful than anything else the commander had seen in her life. She sighed as though she were a lovestruck ape, caressing the prince’s face and brushing away hair that had fallen over his eyes. She took his blond locks that looked to be of spun gold, splayed against the pillow his head rested upon, and straightened them into something more neat and fitting of the royalty that he was.

Gwen loved this man, or at least she had managed to convince herself that she did love him with the entirety of her heart. She would stop at nothing to make him lover her back, regardless of whether he wanted to or not. Deep inside, though, she knew that he would love her back. Deep inside, she believed that he wanted to lover her back. They were fated to be together, after all. Gwen was sure of it. No mere farmboy or once-friend of hers would take the prince away from her. She knew that while the prince felt pain at the moment, it was just delusion that he had actually loved someone as low as the peasant farmer. She knew that she would eventually be thanked for the enlightenment that she had given him, for the favour she had done, ridding him of his quick fuck for him.

She rose from the bed, not taking her eyes off of her prince for a moment. Elian’s arms were still closed over his chest as though in death’s repose. In truth, he would look very much as though life had left him and stiffened his limbs, were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the darting of his eyes under his eyelids. She walked slowly backwards, taking her eyes off of the prince for only the briefest of moments to poke her head outside of the tent to remind the guards posted there that no one was to enter unless she commanded it. The sight that greeted her gained no sympathy from the commander. She merely found it aggravating.

Gwen sighed. The men she had posted outside the tent had fallen face-first onto the ground. Judging by the way that their bodies refused to rise and fall with breath, and the way that their limbs seemed to refuse to move, she presumed they were dead. She scowled, allowing the tent flap to flutter down behind her and seal herself and Elian alone in the tent. The last thing she needed for what she was about to do was someone interrupting her and possibly waking up the prince. The fact of the matter was, however, that neither could she risk leaving and allowing the prince to stir from the slumber that the torment of his soul had forced him into in order to find someone that would ensure that no one would interrupt her.

Throwing caution to the wind, Gwen sidled up to Elian in the bed, placing a less-than-chaste kiss on the prince’s pursed lips, sighing in contentment as she felt the naked body of the lover she believed she was destined to be hers. She traced the contours of Elian’s chest with one finger, admiring the musculature of the young man lying prone and naked beside her. She traced his stomach, better honed now after the weeks of good meals and hard work he’d had while living on Jack’s farm. She couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up from her stomach and out her throat. One look was all it took for her to find that not only was the prince royalty by his blood, his body was altogether fitting of the status of his birth as prince, and perhaps, future king.

She smiled, squeezing the blond’s arm before slowly stripping off her clothes and straddling the prince’s hips, naked as the man that was lying unaware below her. There was only one way to cement their future love, and she was prepared to go through the suffering that it entailed if only it meant that she could forever bind Elian to her side. With one hand, she stroked the slumbering prince’s manhood, and despite the emotional tempest raging within the young man’s soul, his body was still that of a man’s and it was unaware of the gender of the one that was stimulating it. In the pain-filled dreams of Jack that Elian was having in his deep slumber, he received a reprieve. He felt each stroke of Gwen’s hand as a stroke of Jack’s, and he smiled up into his lover’s face, whispering that he had missed the farmboy, that he would find a way to bring the farmboy back. That they would be together again.

The commander smiled in satisfaction as slowly, but inexorably, the pale slab of meat that she was palming with a tenderness worthy only of a lover stiffened, twitching in its misplaced and confused arousal. There was no one to stop the woman from getting what she wanted. There was no Jack to save the prince, what was left of him, ash drifting through the tangle of branches of the woods around his farmstead. The men that could have helped him in the camp were otherwise occupied with their own problems. Bran was being chipped at, broken down by the broken man that he had rescued, that he had put together.

“Don’t worry my love… You’ll know why I did all of this someday. You will understand, and you will thank me” she said, caressing the prince’s cheek with the back of her hand. “This I swear on the gods of the trees and of the sky and this…” she continued, punctuating her words with a squeeze to the hard cock that was rubbing against her entrance, drawing a glob of pre-cum out of it.

“This union, this life we shall create…” she said, patting her stomach lovingly, but more for the fact that what would soon be contained within her womanhood was something that would bind Elian to her than the fact that it would soon harbor another life. “…it shall remind you and I of the love we shall one day share. This I swear” she said with a final ecstatic scream as she rose above the prince and impaled herself on his cock, thrusting the hard member deep into the channels of her wet and dripping cunt. She bounced up and down with little regard for her own pleasure, only the prince’s, and even then, only so that she could bring the young man to fulfillment.

To bind the prince to her forevermore, she was going to take on the greatest trial that a mundane mortal could possibly ever take upon themselves. She was going to be a _mother._

\----------

“Bran” croaked Caedh, his throat sore from the brutal fucking it had received from the man whose hands were tight around his ankles. “Bran…” he said again, mustering more strength in his voice but to no avail. The once-commander was non-responsive, his body and throat locked in position as it was afraid of the pain that would surge through him if he so much as dared to speak. He was commanded to display himself in the most lewd way possible for the once-watchman, and that was what he was going to do.

The one-armed commander was ashamed of himself. He thought he was stronger than this, but the pain that tore through him when he disobeyed was too powerful, too strong, too unimaginably agonizing that he couldn’t resist. Bran had always fancied himself as a strong man who could take on torture without talking, but this, this unique combination of sexual and physical torment had broken his will so easily it was disturbing. His confidence damaged, he merely whimpered at the way that Caedh spoke his name. His face burned even more when in response to the once-watchman being there, he became harder than he had ever been.

He pushed two fingers into himself, his body and the command that had placed him in his current state forcing him to imagine that Caedh’s cock was sliding into him, _ruining_ him. The one-armed once-commander whimpered, wondering if this was how the once-watchman had felt while he was under that merciless brute Gython. He felt soiled, he felt used, he felt as though he was inferior, and all that before Caedh had even laid a single finger on him. “Bran… Please…” croaked the once-watchman with such despair in his voice that the commander was tempted to speak. He opened his mouth but instead of words, what came out was a strangled scream as pain tore through his body instead.

The once-commander’s eyes shot open afterwards, and he panted, more furiously working his virginal hole to prepare it for the man that would ruin him. He plunged three fingers in, gasping at the burning pain that then radiated out from his hole. It did not compare to the pain of disobedience, so instead, he just gritted his teeth and continued to thrust his fingers in and out of himself, opening and closing them to loosen himself enough. The men had said he wouldn’t have any lubrication, and instead he just wanted to be as loose as he could possibly be for Caedh’s cock.

The sounds of Bran’s whimpers made Caedh painfully hard, moreso than he thought he would have been. As a result he whimpered too, some small part of him wanting nothing more than to eat his commander and master out. The idea was revolting, but seeing Bran in such a vulnerable state made Caedh inexplicably aroused, his cock twitching and weeping, strands of pre-cum dangling from the head as globs fell to the frozen ground.

The men carrying him took note and laughed. “This should be easier than we expected” said the one that had rammed his cock down Caedh’s throat as he showed the once-watchman the black bangle around his wrist. “Stop” commanded the man, and Caedh looked on with amazement and growing despair as the once-commander instantly stopped what he was doing, four fingers half-shoved inside his ass. “Cum but feel no relief, no pleasure” said the man and the once-watchman watched, with horror, as Bran let loose a high-pitched whine, and his cock twitched once, twice, and then began to dribble warm white cum.

The once-commander squirmed where he knelt, unable to move because of the previous command that was still keeping him in place. He felt as though he was pissing himself. He was still painfully hard, and he felt frustrated. He wanted to cum. Bran opened his eyes and looked down at himself, gasping when he discovered that instead of piss it was cum that was streaming out of his piss-hole. He whimpered. He felt no pleasure from cumming. He wanted to move his hips, grind against something, hump the cage, anything at all to make the orgasm not feel wasted. His body was still locked in position. His face was burning, cumming from nothing but his fingers in his ass and a spoken command. It was the most humiliating thing he had ever experienced.

The next command that followed made his blood run cold, but he could do nothing but whine as it took hold over him. “So long as you are in this cage, wearing those symbols of your slavery, you will only cum this way. You will not hold your cock. You will not stroke it. You will only cum with something up your pathetic ass, and you will feel no relief from the your arousal.” Bran shivered as the command washed over him and he felt a tingling in his groin, exactly where the metal band was around the base of his cock and balls. He didn’t want to be this way, he didn’t want to cum without pleasure or relief. He wanted to be a man, virile, strong, capable of shooting his cum clean across the room, but that was being taken away from him in much the same way Caedh’s was from him.

Caedh trembled as he was brought closer to the cage. The command that the man had given to Bran was eerily like the one that Gython had broken into him during his time with the giant. He knew the frustration. He was lifted to a part of the cage that he had not noticed before, a needle-like protrusion. There, his finger was pricked, and he watched in horror as the metal of the cage absorbed the blood before forming what seemed to be a door from nowhere. “Clean up your mess. Eat it” commanded the man, and Bran turned around, casting his eyes to the floor, unwilling to meet Caedh’s terrified gaze, as he did. “Look at us” slowly, with hesitation, Bran raised his eyes and met the once-watchman’s just as his tongue shot out and began lapping up the cum on the floor of the cage.

The once-commander’s face burned in much the same way that Caedh’s did. He felt the humiliation, he felt as though everything great about him was being stripped away. First his arm, and now his dignity. The once-watchman couldn’t help but make a small sound of pity when he saw the unshed tears in his commander’s eyes.

The men held onto Caedh for a moment, waiting for Bran to finish, before tearing the door open and flinging the once-watchman into the cage. Surprisingly, despite the force, the cage did not budge when Caedh hit the opposite end. Almost instantly he was in the same situation the one-armed once-commander had found himself in not too long ago. He was stuck to the metal of the cage. He tried to struggle, but it was a futile effort. He could not move an inch. It was only when he noticed the black band of metal around Bran’s neck that he felt the cold metal creeping around his own.

The once-watchman tried to jerk his head away, but was unable to, the metal clicking shut followed by the soft clang of the single hinged loop in front of it, directly underneath his adam’s apple. As soon as he was collared, he fell to the floor of the cage, groaning from the pain of landing. He was about to crawl over to Bran, to console the once-commander, when he heard a voice ring cut clean through the air. “Stop. Come to me” commanded the soldier standing outside the cage, manacles, chains, and cockring in his hands. Caedh glared at him and instead tried to crawl towards Bran again, only to be met with a searing pain that knocked him to the floor, winded. He struggled through it, crawling weakly towards his commander and master and kissing the man on the cheek in a gesture of solidarity. “NOW” bellowed the soldier, perplexed as to how the once-watchman was able to resist the order. It wasn’t for very long, Caedh made his way to the front of the cage. “Present.”

The once-watchman followed the command. He did not want to experience the pain of disobedience. He could resist the commands, but he did not want to waste his energy on one as mundane as this one. He put forward his two arms, which were then bound together by manacles with a length of chain in between. He put forward his legs that were then similarly fettered. Finally, he thrust forward his groin. He whimpered as his tackle was given a hard slap, his nuts aching after the trauma. Aftwards, the man squeezed his parts through the cockring before letting him go.

“You should keep our cum inside your ass” said the soldier. “It should remind you of what you are” he continued, before commanding Caedh to present his hole to the man. He found his hips grasped and pulled back, ass pressing against the bars of the cage. In one swift motion, a cock was buried in him. The fuck was fast, and brutal, serving only to milk the manhood that had been shoved unceremoniously into him. As soon as the cum was buried fast and deep inside his channel, the man shoved something large and cold up his ass.

Tentatively, Caedh reached behind him and found metal extending from the top of the cleft of his ass to the bottom. He knew those were just wings to keep whatever it was that had been shoved inside him firmly embedded. “Fuck your once-commander. _Ruin him,_ ” came the command that he had so dreaded to hear. This was one that he didn’t think he could resist, as all too soon, he was on his knees, making his way to Bran’s exposed ass. The commander was back in the position Caedh had found him in upon arriving, and, uncompelled, the once-watchman’s tongue found its way into the commander’s hole.

Bran was surprised at feeling the warm, wet muscle probing at his entrance. At first he’d thought it was a cock, but then he decided that it was far too soft for a cock. He realized soon after that it was a tongue, a tongue lapping at his twitching hole. His own manhood dribbled hot white cum on the floor of the cage from his arousal, unable to contain himself. The once-commander pushed back on the tongue that was fucking him, trying to get it deeper inside of him.

He was surprised at how wanton he felt. Surprised, disgusted, and sorrowful. The commander was losing his dignity rapidly. First he’d been made to look like a slut in front of the man that he’d saved from a similar fate. Then, he’d cum without touching his cock. Then, now, he had cum from having a tongue up his ass. He wanted to scream, he wanted to die, retreat from the mortal world for a moment and return only when the deed was done so he did not have to experience it. His wishes would go unheard, as Caedh unwillingly stepped back and began to push his member into the once-commander.

The once-watchman moaned as the velvety tightness of his commander wrapped around his cock, massaging it, milking it. He thrust his entire length in all at once, unable to stop his body despite the strangled scream of pain from the man underneath him. Bran was begging him to stop, but he couldn’t. He wanted so badly to stop and fight the command, but he knew that it was better to conserve his strength for a better time. The commander would just have to endure it all for a little while longer.

The once-watchman began to thrust, drawing out completely each time, and ramming his rod down to its root within the once-commander. Soon after, Bran was a gibbering mess, the pain in his ass consuming his mind for the time being. After a few minutes, the pain began to subside, and he found that the pleasure was even worse. It was maddening, the pressure building up against his prostate, the churning in his nuts. He wanted to cum. He wanted to shoot. But he knew that he wasn’t allowed to do that. His body wouldn’t allow him. His instincts to survive, to avoid anything that caused pain overwhelming his own will.

Caedh allowed himself to get into the rhythm of fucking his commander, letting go of his body in much the same way he often did when Gython fucked him. It was the one way he had kept himself from going completely insane, from being completely subdued. He floated, allowing his body to do as it was commanded to, while he began to ponder what he could do to get them out of the situation. He turned his head towards the soldiers who had their cocks out and were furiously pumping them. They were smiling and jeering. He had not realized they were jeering at the once-watchman and the once-commander, calling Bran all manner of derogatory names.

The commander, on the other hand, was painfully aware of what he was being called. “Pussy, Faggot, Cockgobbler.” He felt even more debased as the tears burned in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. They shouted at him. Told him he was enjoying it because he was a slut. A whore. A cockhungry whore. He sniffled, Caedh not stopping once in the relentless fucking he was giving Bran. “You’re nothing but a cunt for men to use!” yelled one of the soldiers. Bran’s cheeks stung. “Look at him! He’s enjoying this!” said another. Bran looked at his traitor cock, hard as a rock and dribbling clear, salty pre-cum from its tip. He felt pressure build up in his nuts and he watched, moaning in horror and arousal, as more warm white cum sputtered from his cock, giving him no relief or pleasure whatsoever. “He’s cumming from getting fucked! Pathetic!” jeered another of the soldiers. Bran just brought his hand to his face, wiping away the tears. This was the stuff of nightmares.

The two, Bran and Caedh both, simultaneously shuddered a few minutes later as they both came, although Bran again felt no relief from the arousal that was wrapped around him. “Slave, you will clean up after yourself” commanded the soldier. “And the two of you will couple like this every time you can.” Caedh trembled as the command washed over them. “You” said the man, referring to Bran, “Continue being a good slut for this bitch. And you, continue breaking him.” Done with their gloating, the men left as Caedh began to thrust into and out of Bran once again.

The once-watchman looked over his shoulder at the retreating backs of the men. He fought the compulsions, feeling the pain race through his being, but surprisingly able to handle it. Perhaps his time with Gython had been more useful than it seemed. He was unable to pull himself out of Bran, but he was at least able to stop. He wrapped his arms around the once-commander and picked him up with all his strength. Caedh was trembling from the exertion of fighting the compulsions that the magics of the cage were forcing upon him, but he prevailed.

Bran was not as strong, and in truth, Caedh did not blame him. The commander may have lost his arm, but he had passed out to avoid the pain soon after. The commander had not had to endure such pain and trial as he had, and so was more susceptible to the punishment of disobedience. The once-watchman held on as Bran frantically tried to get back on his hands and knees and started lapping up the discharge from his cock that had pooled on the cage floor.

The commander felt the cock twitch inside him. Caedh found the sight terribly arousing, though it was probably merely because of his compulsions now. He could not fight all of them at the same time. When Bran was done, the once-commander was confused, not seeming to know what to do. He managed to sink into a moment of lucidity, though his raging erection betrayed the arousal that was still surging in his body. The one-armed man looked over his severed stump at the once-watchman behind him whose erection was pressed into his popped cherry. “I’m sorry…” he sobbed, trembling in Caedh’s arms.

“I’m sorry I can’t fight it…” whispered the commander, but Caedh only held him closer, nuzzling the one-armed man’s shoulder. “I’m useless. Pathetic. Less than a man…” Caedh tightened his embrace. He knew how Bran felt. It was exactly how he felt under Gython, only, then, he did not have anyone to hold him and reassure him. He was there for Bran, though, and he was not about to allow his commander and master to succumb to the crippling self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy that he had himself succumbed to. He was not going to let Bran become a plaything.

“No…” hushed Caedh, reassuring the one-armed man by rubbing his stomach gently. “It’s alright… You’re not used to the pain. No one is but me, I suppose…” he managed, teeth gritted against the ever-present pain of fighting his compulsions. “Let me fight this once. I’ll fight for you. I don’t blame you, and this doesn’t make you any less of a man” said the once-watchman, pressing his lips to Bran’s neck, into which surprisingly, the commander melted. It was comfort in an uncomfortable situation. He liked it. He wanted it, even. Maybe Caedh was right. This was not a battle he was well-equipped to fight.

“This is magic. Black art…” whispered Caedh, cooing to his commander and master. “You’re just a soldier. A commander of a troop, maybe, but a soldier all the same. This isn’t something you were ever prepared for…” reassured the once-watchman. Bran nodded, in a daze. “Don’t lose yourself to this. I’ll fight for me. I’ll fight for you. We’ll fight this together. Alright?” Bran nodded again, latching on to Caedh’s words the same way that Caedh was using Bran’s words to give him the power to resist the magic of the cage.

“I’m not a commander anymore…” said Bran, panting. The pain was beginning to re-establish itself in the commander as the cage began to realize that Bran was not in the proper position and that he was not getting fucked roughly. The one-armed man whimpered, his one hand squeezing the once-watchman’s thigh almost painfully. “Gwen… she stripped me of all my titles and my lands… I used to have a small home. I wanted to offer it to you because you can’t go back to your family. It… it isn’t the best place, but I just lost it… I’m sorry…”

The pain was relentless, but Caedh was used to it, and as it dragged on, he became more adept at fighting the pain. He shook his head at his commander and master. He had no need to apologize. The thought itself was making the once-watchman’s heart flutter. “We can’t fight the cage all the time. But I want you to keep your strength whenever you can. We’ll always fight it after” Caedh was startled by the lips that he found against his immediately after he said those words. Tears streamed from his eyes as their lips were locked together. Bran looked at him with wide eyes as though to beg the once-watchman to never leave his side. “I won’t leave you. You’ll always be my master. You’ll always be _my_ commander.”

The commander whimpered, the pain quickly rising to intolerable levels. Caedh’s expression softened and he tightened his embrace around Bran’s midriff. “Let go. I know it hurts. Let go. I’ll watch over you.” The grateful whine that escaped Bran was almost too much. Caedh had to blink away the tears at what had become of them. His thoughts went unbidden to Elian, but he realized that he needed to help himself and Bran first, so instead he whispered an apology to the prince. “Let go…” he told Bran, stroking the one-armed man’s neck with his cheek.

“Thank you… Thank you for watching over me…” said the once-commander, smiling weakly through the pain that was threatening to overwhelm him. “You’ll always be _my_ watchman.” A single tear rolled down the once-watchman’s cheek, in contrast to the tracks that remained wet on the once-commander’s face. He kissed Bran, and watched as slowly, the commander’s eyes went blank as he let go and allowed the magic of the cell to take over. Caedh let go and watched Bran scramble to his knees, ass up in the air, face pressed against the cold floor of the cage.

Caedh sighed and did the same, squeezing Bran’s one hand before he moved to kneel behind the once commander. It was a gesture of solidarity, and while Bran was not aware of it, it helped Caedh before _he_ let go and allowed the magic to overtake him, but not wholly. He grunted as he felt his body press his cock against the still-leaking pucker of the commander. A loud moan escaped his lips as he then rammed his entire length into the other man. From his detached place in the sanctum of his mind, he looked down at Bran and mouthed a silent apology and a silent promise that they would somehow get out of their bondage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that chapter. What do you think of it so far?
> 
> I'm also purposefully not revealing anything about the question that I'm sure is burning in your minds, but that's just me being a sadistic author. In any case, what do you think of the developing bond between Caedh and Bran? What do you think of Gwen's rapidly escalating depravity?
> 
> <3 No preview yet again! <3


	27. Land of the Departed

_Elian suddenly found himself, inexplicably, and inextricably, drawn to another realm entirely. He was certain it was but a dream brought on by the coma that his body was currently under, caused by the emotional trauma of learning that his lover was no longer of the world of the living. Even so, the pain of that loss did not protect him from the disorientation and shock at being pulled from the sanctum of his mind to this strange land. There were no clouds in the sky, yet there were shapes there, ever shifting in both size, shape, length and colour._

_None of the shapes flitted to colours known by the mortal mind, and it never crossed Elian that he could somehow describe them to himself. For some unfathomable reason, he was able to process all of it with no hint of madness. A moment passed, seemingly an eternity suspended in frozen time._

_Without warning, trees erupted from the ground all around him, their mighty trunks breaking through the tightly packed soil that he had been standing on. The prince looked down, noticing for the first time that the ground was blood-red and that there were fiery grasses that sprouted from in between cracks here and there. The place seemed desolate, but as the trees grew, gnarled limbs reaching for the strange ever-shifting sky, it seemed to come alive._

_The prince saw lights dancing through the trees. There always seemed to be pairs of them. These ones were blue, much like his own eyes, and they glittered, leaving trails of light behind them as they moved. As the trees grew, putting out branches, twigs, innumerable buds and leaves, the pairs of lights began to grow more and more corporeal, their once-invisible bodies coming into visibility after._

_Elian walked up to one of the mighty trees, its bark tinged with crimson and he stroked its bark. He was startled when the tree seemed to vibrate in response to his touch, raining down yellow flowers onto his head as it purred seemingly in pleasure. The sensation was unsettling. He’d never had a tree purr to him before. No tree had any right to be able to make any beastly sound. Nevertheless, the core of his being found no wrong in it._

_Elian looked around and saw that a crowd of the blue lights had gathered around him. It was then that he realized they were eyes. There were numerous creatures, some of them monstrous, others more human, and seemingly beautiful beyond earthly bounds. There were blademanes, though unlike the ones that he had seen before, they had blue eyes. He approached one, surprised that a normally-aggressive creature seemed to be so tame in his presence._

_The creature nickered, its voice tinged with the metallic screeching that was only to be expected from its kind, but it pushed its snout into Elian’s outstretched hand. Its metal body vibrated in response to the touch, sighing in contentment as Elian held it. Surprised, the prince walked up to the creature and instead of the aggression he anticipated, he received affection._

_A bird alit on his shoulder. The tiny creature was constructed in a similar manner to the blademane in front of him, with feathers and stiff quills made of metal and a body made of lustrous sheets convoluted in intricate patterns. It cooed at him and nuzzled his cheek. Had he not been grieving the loss of Jack, he would have chuckled, instead he only smiled. Not only that, but had he not been so embedded in his grief, he would have realized that the force that pulled him to Jack had returned, albeit faintly._

_The blademane nickered at him and gestured with its head to its back. Against his better judgment, Elian hopped onto the creature’s back. He sat there for a moment, taking in the sights around him, the metal creatures stark against the crimson of the environment. He sighed, wishing Jack was there with him. He imagined the farmboy being at first uneasy, but adjusting as soon as he saw that the creatures were not hostile._

_The prince imagined Jack flying through the trees, stirring their leaves and freezing some with that shepherd’s crook of his. He smiled, remembering his deceased lover, but at the same time, pain wiped it off his face. He wanted to leave for the Westerlands to be with his lover. It was all he wanted now. He had to follow Jack._

_The blademane whinnied, sensing the turmoil at the heart of its rider. There were others nearby, and they echoed its call. The blades on the creature’s back began to vibrate, filling the area with a high-pitched hum that only got louder and louder as the others joined in. Elian knew he should have found the noise uncomfortable, but it was not. If anything, it felt comforting._

_Without his spurring, the blademane took off, galloping through the trees. Elian lowered himself over the creature’s back, surprised that the blades bent out of his way, and that the ones that didn’t felt just like a horse’s mane. This was a creature that had terrorized Vamara periodically over the years, and yet here was one, docile like a trained horse. Elian sighed, really wishing that Jack had been there to see him._

_The prince almost flew off of the blademane’s back when it ground its metal hooves into the earth, coming to a sudden halt. Even nearly flying off of such a tall creature — he found himself wondering for a moment how he managed to effortlessly jump onto the blademane’s back — did nothing to damp the shock and joy he felt at what he then saw._

The prince gasped, eyes shooting open, unbelieving of what he had seen. Had he somehow managed to find his way to the Middleworlds, the reputed source of all the blademanes and the perhaps-not-so-terrible creatures like it? He shook his head, finding the concept to be hardly believable. It didn’t seem as though he’d actually left the camp of Bran’s troop. In fact, he was surprised to find he was in his tent.

He gave a start when he realized he was not alone on his bed. Suddenly, he realized just what was off about the entire situation. His cock felt wet, slick, as though it had just been somewhere. He looked down and saw that it was still glistening with discharge and bodily fluids. There was a tiny amount of cum pooled over the sparse, barely-visible trail that traced down from his belly button to the top of his cock. A strange terror seized him and he looked to the side, finding exactly the person he feared to be there.

It was Gwen, and she was naked, albeit sleeping soundly. Her slumber was fortunate, she had remained awake for the longest time waiting for Elian to rise from his slumber but he hadn’t. She wanted to tell him the news. She had _felt_ the seed take. She _knew_ it had quickened in her womb. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t get the chance to tell him. Elian barely stopped himself from screaming in alarm as he saw the slow dribble of cum from the woman’s cunt. He crawled off of the bed as slowly as he could, as quietly and gently as he could.

He saw something in the middle of the tent that caught his eye. It was a piece of a flower-petal of an almost-incomprehensible, indescribably beautiful colour. The prince’s eyes were riveted to the primordial artifact. Somehow, deep inside, he knew it to be a Shard of the Coldsnap, and that it belonged with him as his birthright. He walked toward it, entranced as it slowly spun and drifted up and down, protected in a thick glass dome, held in midair by some unseen force. He stretched out his hand and saw the piece drift slowly toward him. He stopped just a few centimetres from the glass, the petal keeping the same distance.

The prince breathed in deeply, instinctively knowing what he had to do. He placed his hand on the glass and began to speak in a language that none on the mortal realm would know. It was the language of creation, the language of the Middleworlds, of the magic that created magic itself. The words rolled off his tongue as though he had spoken them all his life. His eyes glowed the same brilliant colour as the Shard which then began to burrow its way through the glass.

The moment the priceless artifact touched the prince’s skin, a shockwave of ice radiated from his body and he felt the piece of the Coldsnap that had been protected within the glass bell merge with the Shard he held within him. He felt his powers grow tenfold, and watched with surprise as with just a whim, the swirling, glittering crystals that had surrounded him, formed, over his body, the same armour he had seen in his dreams so long ago.

Tendrils of frost wrapped around his arms and his torso, freezing away the dried cum and bodily fluids before forming what seemed and felt, in many ways, to be cloth. It was rich and comfortable. It was, in many ways, _liberating._ He couldn’t help the smile that clung to his face then and there as on top of the cloth, the crystals coalesced into something of a chestplate and greaves.

Things had just taken a turn for the better. A cape of translucent ice crystals began to form over his back, but it did not manage to finish itself before Gwen woke up and screamed “NO! Stop!” That, and the sound of the tent flap being tossed aside was all the warning that the exile prince received. Elian merely smiled at the commander, thinking she was talking to him.

The blond allowed his ice to finish its work, completing the cape that then drifted down in voluminous, quite unnecessary folds, settling down around his feet. He reached over his shoulder to unclasp the damnable thing that was a sight too long, when he heard a high-pitched voice scream unintelligibly at him. Mere heartbeats later, he felt the shard of ice pierce his chest and his heart.

#####

The exile prince looked down in shock at the strangely familiar little girl whose hand bore the icy dagger thrust into his chest. It was a shard much like the one that he had used when he had attempted to end his own life what seemed to be such a long time ago. Both ends of the damnable thing were coated in blood. The sharp edges that the little girl had managed to wrap her tiny fingers around gouged her skin and made her bleed almost as much as Elian was under the ice-armour.

It was surprising, that a little girl had had the strength to stab the shard through the armour, though Elian supposed that she was angry enough to will it so. The exile prince grimaced when the little girl twisted the shard, blood spurting out of the wound. He looked up and saw Gwen with her weapon bearing down on the child. Apologetically, he smiled at the little girl before throwing out his hand and freezing Gwen where she stood. He left her head free. He didn’t want to have to kill anyone again.

The little girl looked up in shock, eyes narrowing in anger when she saw what the prince had done to Gwen. Before her eyes, the eerily similar image of her mother frozen entirely in a block of ice danced as though tauntingly. The exile prince winced as again, Liana twisted the dagger in his chest out of sheer anger.

Had she been like the men that had raped him and attempted to rape Jack, Elian knew that his ice would have struck back already, but there was something different about this little girl. Her innocence. Her anger. Her willingness to risk her life. Her ability to overcome the safety of Elian’s ice.

The exile-prince coughed, droplets of blood splattering across the little girl’s face. Her ice-blue eyes were glittering with anger. Her free hand was balled into a fist, knuckles pale from the pressure, at her side. The prince caressed the side of the little girl’s face. In his mind’s eye, the image of his younger brother was superimposed upon hers. “Little one…” he began, eyes watery with tears, guilt palpable in the icy-blue orbs. “What did I do to hurt you so?” This little girl that stood before him, that had managed to hurt him in a way no one else had managed to before, was the pinnacle of the sins that he had committed.

She was representative of the greatest evils he had done during his life on the run from his homeland. There was that boy that he had frozen solid. He had stolen that boy’s life, too, but at least he had not been alive to suffer it. This child, trembling in anger and barely restrained grief, was different. All in one sweep, with one gesture of his hand, he had taken away all that was dear to her, and left her alive to wallow in the misery of that loss.

If there was any redemption he was to have in his life, it would begin with her. “What did I do to remove your innocence?” He knew fully well that there was but one reason that a creature such as her could hurt him with the ice that normally kept him safe. He caressed her face, stroking the soft strands of hair that were splayed willy-nilly over her pale flesh. His features softened as he looked upon her visage, he knew why she was familiar. She was the child of the woman he’d killed before he found Jack.

“You killed her!” _Thump_. “You took my father away!” _Thump._ “You took his best friend away!” _Thump._ The little girl was screaming at him from the top of her lungs as she slammed her fist into Elian’s chest in anger. Tears streamed down her face as she twisted the dagger firmly embedded in the flesh of his chest once more. Elian groaned in pain. She hit him with her fist again. “You cursed me!” she screamed, pausing, then casting her gaze to the frozen ground beneath her feet. The frozen droplets of her tears tinkled against the earth.

Elian followed her gaze, seeing the blood that pooled at his feet, and more blood seeping in from outside the tent. The little girl had overpowered soldiers, all in this bid for vengeance against the exile prince. It was, in many ways, a discomfiting thought that one as young as her was so capable of such strength, but the prince found an inexplicable sort of comfort from that knowledge.

The prince shivered before throwing his arms around the little girl. The action plunged the dagger deeper into his chest, making him wince in pain, but he remained steadfast. He whispered in her ear “Thank you…” Tears streamed down his face at the strange, unfathomable joy that he felt at this act of vengeance by a little girl, probably once so innocent and pure and likely still both but less than before.

The men from her village, that had meant to harm him, kill him, torture him, and do terrible things to him gave him no such happiness as this. Why, he could not properly discern. Perhaps it was that the little girl’s intentions were so vestal and unmarred by malice. She only wanted, in her naivete, to cause Elian the same pain he’d caused her.

Liana looked up at him, completely perplexed by his utterance of thanks. “Thank you for punishing me for what I’ve done, for the pain I’ve inflicted on you…” he continued, the words stilling the little girl’s tears, her trembling, and her continued, but gradually weakening pounding on his chest. She hesitated when Elian pulled her even closer, driving the shard of ice deeper into his heart. The pain that radiated out from the prince’s chest was cathartic, for some unearthly reason. He felt the shackles that bound him to the past melt away. “Thank you…” he repeated.

“You’re not…” Liana stammered, wresting herself away from the prince’s embrace, baffled at why the man was not angry at her. Why he had, instead, a sympathetic look on his face. “You’re not angry?” she asked, childlike innocence and curiosity creeping into her voice. Elian shook his head from side to side. He was not angry, not even ticked off. He was grateful, instead. “You’re good…” she said, an awed wonder palpable in her voice as she squeezed the prince’s cheeks in her little hands. It was almost as though the fact that the prince seemed to have such a pure soul underneath all the blood he’d spilt in greatest necessity to save himself, made it difficult to remain furious with him.

“Why are you good?!” she demanded, her fingers squeezing almost painfully on the flesh of Elian’s face. The exile prince then realized that perhaps it was because it was a child that had attempted to end his life that his ice was not striking out in retaliation. His heart forbade it. He had hurt a child with his powers once, and that had sent him into years-long exile. He was not about to make the same mistake.

There was also the fact that the prince felt as though if he explained himself, the little girl would listen to his story. Perhaps, she would not forgive him. What he had done to destroy her life was not something that could so easily be fixed with an apology, but nevertheless he would try. The grown men from her village would not have listened, especially not when they carried blades and a lust in their groins for his blood. A little girl such as the one before him was likely to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Elian chuckled, unable to stop himself as he buried his face in the little girl’s neck. It was more because he needed the support. His limbs were growing wobbly from the blood loss. “I’m sorry, too…” he said to her, making her tremble and bite her lip. The prince felt teardrops splashing against his skin. “I’m sorry I killed your mother… I’m sorry your father came after me. I’m sorry his friend did, too. I’m sorry you lost all of them… I really am…” he whispered, his voice just barely reaching the little girl’s ears.

Liana was surprised. She felt the sincerity of the prince’s words. She had not expected him to be so… different, so kind, so pure of heart. She had expected him to tell her in utter malice that he had enjoyed every moment of her mother’s death, that he had enjoyed leaving her fatherless and alone as a consequence.

The little girl had built her entire image of the prince as this murderous villain whose death would be her favour to the world. Instead she had found someone whom she knew felt every bit of guilt for what he had done, going so far as to thank her for exacting her price on him.

“Why?” was the single question that had plagued the little girl all this time. Why was the single word that she could manage out of her throat, constricted by her sobbing and the sheer turmoil of her heart. She wanted to know why her mother had to die. Why her father had to leave her alone without family. Why her father’s lovesick best friend had to follow. Why she had to have the misfortune of being cursed with the powers of ice that had killed her mother, the same powers that had changed her appearance, and made her somewhat of a pariah in her own home village. She just wanted her family and her life back.

“She was going to kill me…” whispered Elian as his ice began to come to his aid once more. It pushed the shard out of his chest. It fell on the frozen ground and cracked into three large pieces. His words served to anger the little girl once again. He was lying, she thought, but the prince forged on. “She ran out of your house with a sickle and dogs. She came after me. I was only walking by. I was leaving. She chased me off for being different…”

There was a twinge of fear in Elian’s voice as his mind’s eye recounted the events of that fateful day vividly before him. He remembered every detail clearly. He remembered the gleam of that sickle, the spittle of the dogs as they barked at him. “She kept coming after me when I said I was leaving. I got scared. She threatened to gut me and feed me to the dogs…”

The prince drew a shuddering breath through his gritted teeth. The flesh of his chest was beginning to knit back together. “I was scared. I thought she was going to catch up and kill me. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I fought back. Well, my ice fought back. My ice struck her. I closed my eyes. I didn’t know what to do. When I opened them, she was dead, _frozen._ ”

The prince’s words washed over the little girl, soothing the disbelief that plagued her. Doubt wormed its way into her heart, where she kept this image of her mother as a loving and gentle woman. She did not know whether she wanted to believe the gentle prince, but she could feel the sincerity in his voice. She could see the genuine fear and pain on his face as he recounted the events of that day.

Liana remembered quite clearly herself. Her mother had looked out the window, muttered something under her breath. It was the same word she called the tanner Rein. She was angry. She found herself a sickle before stalking out the front door with a huff. Liana remembered. She had heard the dogs soon after. She had heard her mother shouting unintelligibly. Then a loud crackle, then terrible, eerie silence.

The little girl firmly remembered then looking out of her home and seeing the woman frozen solid in a block of ice, the dogs behind her, the sickle in her hands still gleaming through the clear ice. She remembered seeing Elian for the briefest of moments as he scrambled to his feet and began to run away. She realized that what she had remembered as him trembling from laughter was probably more likely the prince trembling in fear and grief and self-loathing for having lost control like he had. Liana whimpered before burying her face in Elian’s chest. She muttered an apology for the assassination attempt.

Elian sighed, shaking his head to free it from the image that had, unbidden, drifted into his mind’s eye. It was of the moment that he had lost control of his creation. The soldier made of snow and ice. He remembered the blade sweeping through the air in a downward arc. He remembered his younger brother’s scream as the tip of the icy claymore gouged through his eyebrow and down the side of his face. “I deserved it…” he whispered as the image dissolved from his sight. He would make amends to Andrew. The king deserved as much from his older brother.

“Just like my mother did…” said Liana with finality, one accompanied by the dissolution of the saintly image of her mother that she had kept in vain in her heart over the years despite what numerous people had told her in hushed tones while her mother was not around. She had always wondered why her father was so miserable. For her, her mother had been the best person in the world, kind and loving, if not a bit strict and preaching. It was only in her mother’s death that Liana found many more people talking freely of what she had done, that she was very far from saintly.

The little girl had very much been in denial and instead channelled her anger toward Elian, believing, somehow, that he had managed to turn the people of her village against her mother. Now that she had seen him, heard him, she felt stupid. She thought the prince would be some villainous figure, some eldritch creature with a malicious, sadistic streak. She had not expected someone as haunted, as guilty, and as sincere as the young man that was before her.

Elian watched the little girl’s face fall, a niggling guilt in the back of his conscience. He’d probably just destroyed her image of her mother being a good person. He wiped away her tears with his thumb. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t willing to concede that her mother _was_ indeed a good person, because, as far as he was concerned, she had tried to kill him. Instead he took the little girl’s injured hand in his own and used his magic to heal the wound that had buried itself in her soft young flesh.

Liana looked up at the prince with a mixture of alarm and amazement as she watched the skin and sinew knit itself back together with ice. The blood stopped flowing, freezing, breaking apart, and falling away in crimson flecks. Elian covered the little girl’s hand with his own and looked her in the eye. “What would you have me do, little one?” he asked, voice trembling with apprehension at what she might ask him to do. “And no, unfortunately, I cannot bring them back.”

Liana nodded solemnly, understanding that the dead were meant to be laid to rest instead. “Take away the curse, please…” she begged him, tears brimming in her eyes. That was her request. She didn’t want the powers that haunted her, not anymore. Elian felt a twinge of pain in his chest. It was a familiar sentiment. It was a request he’d made of the gods more than a few times in his childhood. They had never granted his request, but perhaps he should try to grant the little girl hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked her. She reacted as he expected. She nodded in earnest, but Elian was worried for the child. She had nothing left but her ice, and to strip her of that one thing, the single way she could defend herself, did not sit well with the prince. “This is all you have left. What will you do if bad men come after you? Without your ice, you will have no defense against them…”

Liana’s eyes widened at the question. The prince was right in many ways, but to bear the ice was too painful. It reminded her too much of all that she had lost. “I’ll manage…” she said, softly. She had, after all, managed to find the camp on her own through a winter storm.

“I’ll try…” said Elian, but he sincerely did not want to get rid of her ice. It was her only defense now. He looked into the little girl’s eyes, knowledge welling up from the formidable strength of the Coldsnap within him. He suddenly _knew_ how to do exactly what it was that he had to do, but an alternative presented itself. “I can put the curse to sleep…” he said, drawing a puzzled glance from the little girl. “Unless you are in mortal danger, it will not wake to protect you. How does that sound? I can’t, in good conscience, let you go without anything to protect you…”

Liana considered the option for a moment before nodding. She sucked in air through her lips as she felt power surge through her, flowing into her small body from Elian. Slowly, she felt the powers raging within her go dormant. She felt a chill as her humanity returned to her. Her skin regained its natural colour. Her eyes the same. Her hair not long after. The biting cold of the camp was a bit difficult to stand, but she would endure it. That much she knew. She opened her eyes, not realizing that she had closed them, and looked at Elian who was in turn gazing at her with a tender expression.

At that moment, they both heard a loud crack as Gwen began to free herself from the cold bondage that Elian had put her in. The exile prince turned to her and reinforced the bonds, strengthening the block of ice that prevented her lower extremities from moving. “Run, little one” he told her, as he fought against the sheer will of the commander. The little girl took a step back and looked up at him with wide, trembling eyes from fear and apprehension. Her petite body was still reeling from the shock of having her wish granted by the man that had taken everything from her.

“Little one, there is evil at work in this place. Run now. Run and save yourself.” Liana nodded, wiping away the tears in her eyes before bolting out through the tent flap. Elian followed quickly after, but soon lost the nimble little girl. He took off in a random direction, knowing, somehow, that the enchantment that bound him to the damnable place had been dissolved.

Needless to say, his blood ran cold when he saw Gwen leap naked, teeth bared in challenge, out of the side of the tent. She left behind her a long, jagged gash in the canvas that fluttered in the slight breeze. Right on the commander’s heels, a circle of men seemed to materialize from thin air, threatening to surround the prince. Elian’s ice seemed to not faze them. The demon in control of the troop had taken a more direct approach and was actively fighting Elian’s magic. Slowly, the prince backed away. He might have been powerful, but he could not possibly overcome an entire company of soldiers.

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It all began with a tingling on the back of his neck, the soft sound of his name being called, so muted that it seemed like a whisper in the non-existent wind. He was being called from afar. Blearily he opened his eyes, registering merely the fact that his cheek was pressed against packed dirt in his grogginess. As wakefulness spread through his body, he realized that the ground underneath him was dry and cracked, and red as blood. In front of his eyes, something he initially thought to be a little fire wriggled as he looked at it. It was grass, each blade taking on all the hues and shapes of tongues of flame.

His eyes went wide as his weary mind began to grind its gears into action. The voice he’d heard. He knew it. It belonged one person, and one person alone. He would always recognize that voice, no matter the situation, no matter the distance or time between them. It was Elian’s. The farmboy tried to get up, only to realize suddenly that there was a very heavy, and, judging by the lump of flesh he could feel against his thigh, very naked weight on top of him.

“Fuck!” he groaned, calling to his strength and pushing the weight off of his back by sheer force of will. It was Kristoff. Only, there was something odd about him. Though he had felt entirely solid on the farmboy’s back, the Mage looked ethereal, the ground slightly visible through his translucent flesh and bone. He was wrapped in a glow, a gray, cloying, deathly glow. It repulsed the farmboy, and he pushed himself a small distance away from the Mage. It was in the process that he caught sight of his body, and its similar condition to Kristoff’s.

He was himself ethereal, but the aura that had bound itself to his form was entirely different from that which surrounded the Mage. His was bluish-white like the ice that he commanded, distinct from the pure white of Elian’s. Jack ran his hands through his hair, still baffled by how it all seemed so… solid, so corporeal, yet, if what his eyes saw indicated anything, it was all ethereal. He had to wonder if he and Kristoff were dead, somehow ripped from the world of the living and dropped into the Westerlands. He didn’t think it was possible, nor was he convinced. He didn’t think the Westerlands would look as forlorn as the packed, dry, cracked red dirt of this realm they had somehow found themselves in.

Jack shook his head, latching on to the fact that he’d heard Elian’s voice, or at least something suspiciously like Elian’s voice calling out to him in the distance. He looked around only to find that there was no exile prince, at least in the immediate area. He still found much to gape at, though the wonder of the sight that greeted him made him sit back down, the dry dirt firm underneath his buttocks.

Where there were grasses poking through the cracks in the dirt here and there, some of them brilliant like fire, others ghostly white, they did not quite compare to the hardier plants that seemed to be in the vicinity. Intermittently, massive trees soared from the ground around them. They were in a woods, but one different from anything the farmboy had ever seen before. He was fairly certain that bark, while definitely rough, was never supposed to be tinged with the crimson of blood, was never supposed to expand and contract to seem as though the trees breathed underneath.

With bated breath, the farmboy’s eyes followed the trunks of the trees outwards, mouth still slightly agape at the eerie wonder of the place. The branches were wrapped by the same bark. The swell of the trees’ ‘breath’ traveled up the trunk and through the branches rhythmically. The twigs, however, were the same crimson as the ground, though they drooped as though made of flesh. The leaves that budded off of them were metallic, but translucent, in multitudes of hues and colours from yellow to orange to red and everything in between, glittering in the omnipresent, but seemingly sourceless light that permeated the area.

The leaves of the treas glimmered and gleamed, making shadows and brilliant fire-like colours dance in the small clearing around himself and Kristoff. Though he was compelled to look around him more, his eyes were drawn inexorably upward, and his bated breath escaped him in a soft gasp. The sky was strange. It was cloudless but covered in ever shifting shapes. They were filled with colours indescribable by the words of the mortal tongue, and these colours changed from one to the next faster than the mortal mind could comprehend. The farmboy was puzzled by how it seemed he could grasp the impossibility of the colours without losing his grip on his sanity.

The answer came from within him, from the primal ice that resided in the depths of his soul. The answer reverberated, creating a clear although subtle ripple in the aura around the farmboy, from the Shard of the Coldsnap that lived within him. He was _elsewhere_. This was not the realm of mortal men, but neither was he entirely of that realm. Some part of him had been born here, and that allowed him to remain sane.

Jack blinked, tearing his eyes away from the mesmerizing sights of the ever-shifting ‘clouds’ in the sky. He looked around, wary at the pairs of blue lights with glittering trails that had suddenly come from the depths of the woods around them. He was surprised as he lay his eyes on the Mage and a third, white-haired naked man whom he had never seen before lying not far beside him. From between the man’s legs, just above the cleft of his ass, was a fluffy tail that was wagging ever so slightly as he snored softly. Two dog-like ears twitched in the place of normal human ears.

Eyes wide, Jack realized he was himself as naked as the day he was born, just like the other two men. He knelt slowly by the Mage. “Kristoff.” He blinked back tears, feeling waves of decay rolling off of the mage. It was almost sickening. He wondered, after he regained his composure, why the aura surrounding the Mage was like this. The other, white-haired man seem to be wrapped in a glow similar to Jack’s, making Kristoff the odd one out. “Kristoff!” he repeated, louder, grasping the Mage’s shoulder and shaking him.

“Mmph? Hmm?” grunted the blond as he cracked his eyes open groggily and pushed himself into a sitting position opposite the farmboy. He slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He yawned as he stretched his arms. Jack shook his head, clucking in disapproval, but the Mage merely shrugged at him. It was only when he was awake enough that Kristoff noticed that the farmboy was naked. “Why are you naked?” he asked. Jack rolled his eyes and looked down. Kristoff’s eyes followed the farmboy’s, discovering his own state of undress. “Why are _we_ naked?” Jack shrugged in response. _He_ didn’t know.

“I think we’re in the Middleworlds…” said the farmboy, uncertain, though his ice told him he was absolutely correct. He looked around warily once more, only to find that the pairs of blue lights had become eyes, and that the creatures possessing them were beginning to take corporeal form. “Look” he told Kristoff, gesturing slowly. He had no idea whether the creatures would attack with sudden movements, though they did not seem to initially be hostile. They were getting a bit too close for comfort, however.

The Mage looked up, startled at first, then, terrified at the sight of the blademanes. _They_ were numerous, as every other animal in the ring surrounding them was a blademane. In the Upperworld, where mankind had made its home, those creatures had gained quite the notoriety for themselves after the Rift was torn open. “Jack…” said Kristoff, not knowing what to say to the farmboy who seemed to be relatively unfazed by the blademanes, either ignorant of their reputation or uncaring of it. “Jack, those are blademanes…” he whispered slowly sliding himself closer to the farmboy. He did not know whether the creatures would be prompted to attack if he did the wrong thing.

All the reports on the blademanes in the Upperworld had involved the creatures attacking first, never watching just like these ones were. “They are hunters… They are said to kill men on sight…” said Kristoff, finding himself beside the farmboy without any tragedy befalling the two of them. He looked around, observing the myriad creatures that had gathered. There were bears made of volcanic glass with beating hearts of molten rock visible through their dark but translucent ‘skins.’ There were a few humanoid creatures, reminiscent of the fey of lore. None were as tall as the farmboy or the mage, but they had wings on their backs made of what seemed to be fine glass.

“They don’t seem too bad…” said Jack. The farmboy, having been around animals all his life, knew the ones that were hostile from the ones more hospitable to men like himself. Though these were creatures of another realm entirely, they seemed to behave much like farm animals. A bird made of what seemed to be crystal, with wings that whirred with a pleasant ring, alit on Jack’s shoulder, startling the Mage.

The farmboy raised a hand to the creature, prompting it to jump down on his index finger. Jack brought the odd animal near his face, and it cocked its head sideways at him before opening a wing and ‘scooping’ up part of his aura. Surprisingly, the glow of light that surrounded the farmboy’s ethereal body came away with the wing. The bird then tipped the cup it had made over its head, tittering pleasantly as the aura trickled down over its head as though heavy mist. Jack couldn’t help but smile, his eyes being drawn to the blue eyes of the creatures. They were almost identical in hue to the stone in his ring, though the difference was that the bird’s eyes glittered with what seemed to be myriad innumerable stars both at the surface and deeper within.

The farmboy was about to get up from where he was squatting when he found himself suddenly pinned to the ground by a very-heavy, very-naked, white-haired man who then started to lick him ll over his face. The farmboy was disgusted, though the feeling of the man’s hips moving back and forth as the tail just above his ass wagged was admittedly more strange than revolting. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

The man on top of him whimpered and settled his head on Jack’s chest. Surprisingly, the white-haired man was heavier than Kristoff, which was something to consider given that the Mage was anything but petite. Jack shook his head, tufts of hair tickling his chin and his nose as the odd dog-ears on the man wriggled back and forth. There was something familiar about the low whine that was rumbling through the other man. Jack couldn’t place it at first, until, in a sudden rush of impossible epiphany, he realized why it was familiar. “Glaise?”

The man-dog barked at him happily, further bewildering the poor farmboy as Glaise settled down on top of him, his newly liberated manhood settled against Jack’s. It was enough to bring a deep flush to the farmboy’s face, though the once-hound-now-man seemed to not mind at all. “…What?” asked Kristoff after a moment of trying to process — an exercise in futility — the situation. “Wasn’t Glaise your hound?” Jack nodded as best as he could from where he was pinned to the ground. He was having trouble himself wrapping his head around what had happened. Glaise licked his cheek affectionately and yipped, a strange look dawning over his face as he realized that he sounded different.

“Alright…” Kristoff said, shaking his head at the befuddling sight of the man who had once been a dog, still acting entirely like a dog. “That’s… strange…” He blinked. _“Understatement of the century”_ he mused in his head. He couldn’t quite help the smile that graced his lips as he watched Jack trying to wrestle the hound-turned-man off of him. Glaise, on the other hand, kept trying to get on top of Jack. It wasn’t until Kristoff remembered that there were blademanes around them that his heart skipped a beat in terror. Fortunately, they had not attacked and seemed to be watching, with genuine curiosity, the events unfolding before them.

“Glaise! Glaise! Get off!” protested the farmboy, shoving the dog-man sprawling into the dirt beside him as he scrambled into a sitting position, ready to grapple with Glaise if he needed to. “You’re a man! How?!” he demanded, though the once-hound merely cocked his head sideways curiously at Jack, blinking twice in confusion. Jack let loose an exasperated sigh and swung himself toward the once-hound on his knees. “Hand” he said, and, sitting on his haunches, Glaise placed his hand on Jack’s outstretched one.

“Look” said Jack, grasping the dog-man’s hand and raising it to his face. He watched with slight amusement as the dog-man’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion at the sight that greeted him. Glaise barked at the hand, wriggling it and snarling when it wriggled as he wanted it to. He bit the hand with such force that it made Jack wince. The action was followed by a high-pitched whining and nosing at the injured hand. The farmboy shook his head. Though mostly an intelligent creature, there were times when Glaise seemed to forget the most basic of things.

Jack stood before grabbing the dog-man’s two hands and pulling Glaise to his own feet. When he let go, the once-hound staggered a few steps forward before stopping. His legs were spread slightly apart. He was half bent-over. His hands were hanging down in front of him. His tail was wagging madly, and, finally, his neck was craned to look up at Jack. The farmboy shook his head and straightened the hound. As soon as he let go, Glaise returned to his former pose. He growled in exasperation.

Kristoff, on the other hand, stared only for a moment at the two before looking around at the creatures observing them. He looked for another man. It had not escaped him that Sven was nowhere to be found, and he hoped that perhaps the reindeer had encountered the same fate as the hound. Much to his chagrin, however, that was simply not the case. His best friend for the past handful of years was nowhere to be seen.

The Mage hung his head, making a startled noise when he felt something cold nudge the side of his face. It was one of the blademanes, surprisingly docile, and seemingly downright adoring of him, judging by the glimmer in its eyes. How he could tell, Kristoff didn’t entirely understand. Jack was right, however, in that they did not seem hostile. In fact they appeared to be quite the opposite, friendly and welcoming. Tentatively, the Mage raised his hand and touched the snout of the creature, marvelling at the cool feel of the intertwined metal sheets that formed the blademane’s head. The blademane whinnied at him, its metal body vibrating with the happy sound.

Kristoff nearly jumped out of his skin, the blademane nickered unhappily at the same time, when he heard a loud thump behind him. Glaise had managed to overpower Jack again and was, much to the farmboy’s embarrassment, humping his leg. “Glaise!” protested Jack, squirming underneath his dog. He managed to smack the dog-man’s ass quite strongly. That put a stop to the mischief. Glaise whimpered and sat to the side, tail tucked between his legs. “Oh don’t give me that” said Jack, trying his best not to look at the evident erection bobbing between the once-hound’s thighs.

He gulped, the sound, for some reason, amplified into the entire clearing. Kristoff chuckled. “Why are we here?” asked Jack as he pulled Glaise back to his feet with a stern admonition. The once-hound tried his best to stay on two legs, imitating his master’s posture. “There was something shimmering in the air while we were running away from the soldier…” whispered Jack, remembering through the muddled haze of the events preceding their unceremonious entry into the Middleworlds. “We passed through and then there was so much pain, and then… next thing I knew we were here.”

“ _The void calls to its children…_ ” whispered Kristoff under his breath, echoing the words of the Grensyr not too long ago. Jack held the other Manifest Shard of the Coldsnap within his essence… The Mage’s eyes widened with the realization that they had been _pulled_ into the Middleworlds by whatever magic was calling to the Coldsnap. Then, despair hit him. The only possible explanation for the shimmer in the air that had taken them to the Middleworlds was a tear in the fabric of reality. The Grensyr had been truthful. There were portals everywhere, and if he was interpreting the mysterious words correctly, they were following the Shards.

The Mage turned to face the blademane, having just seen the farmboy straighten Glaise with a glare. “I don’t know” he answered. There was an art to saying only part of the truth, and, in reality, apart from the void calling to them, and pulling them to the Middleworlds, Kristoff genuinely had no idea what they were doing there, or how they were supposed to get out. “I suppose we should find a way to get back” Jack nodded, determined. He flashed the dog-man another glare as Glaise began to stoop again.

“For Elian…” said Jack. He meant to whisper the words under his breath, but for some reason, his voice rang with power in this realm. Kristoff nodded grimly before the blademane nudged his hand. He looked at the creature and its metallic screeching that belied its intelligence that had quickly become apparent as soon as it allowed Kristoff to come near. It was almost as though the blademane was telling the Mage that it perhaps could help. The Mage froze as he felt metal wrap around his waist, surprisingly dull and gentle against his flesh. He was picked up and deposited on the blademane’s back.

“I suppose this fellow knows something?” he said with a sheepish grin as he adjusted himself on the blademane’s back. The metal that had wrapped around him might have been gentle, doing no damage to him whatsoever, but he still wasn’t comfortable nestling his manhood in the middle of a mane of sharp blades. Had the situation not called for it, he probably would have dismounted as soon as he had been put there, though the height of the blademane might have been a problem. “Maybe these creatures can take us where we need to go…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Next week's chapter is the penultimate. We're drawing to the conclusion of this volume of Coldsnap. It's not going to be as dark as what happened waaaay back in Chapter 10 but it's definitely going to be harrowing, and it will be the first time one of our pair realizes just how large the world is outside of his little farmstead.
> 
> I'd like to hear what you think of this chapter! What do you feel about what Gwen did to Elian? Where Jack has found himself all of a sudden?
> 
> And let's not forget... WHAT ABOUT GLAISE?!
> 
> No preview for next week! But I do hope you look forward to it. >:]


	28. Chapter 28

The entirety of the camp was eerily silent save for the sound of armour clanking as the soldiers nearby moved around in pursuit of Elian. The prince looked over his shoulder once as he urged his body into a run. The way the soldiers moved, jerky and unnatural, convinced the blond beyond the shadow of a doubt that they were being controlled by a powerful, external force. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought there were black puppeteer’s strings that were controlling the men. Regardless, he could not waste time in speculation. He needed to get away from them to somewhere safer as fast as possible. He could only hope that the little girl managed to make it to sanctuary now that her ice had been put to sleep.

The eldritch creature behind the sudden sinister turn of events meant to overwhelm Elian with sheer numbers. Even though the prince had absorbed another piece of the Coldsnap, amplifying his power even more, he could not possibly fight an entire company of men on his own, not when they were being partially protected from his magic by another creature of the void. The strategy seemed to be working. Elian was being driven to the edge of the camp that he likely, if he knew what was there, did not want to go to.

He had no choice. The men were closing in all around him and he was being forced — unbeknownst to him — further and further away from safety. Elian was looking over his shoulder intermittently as he ran forward, eyes frantically scanning his surroundings and keeping track of the men closing in on him. It wasn’t until he reached the edge of the ring of tents that he realized that the soldiers were following him, but not chasing him.

The prince cursed under his breath before, for the first time, he finally noticed the cages that were a mere handful dozen paces ahead of him. Elian’s eyes widened as they latched onto the two men occupying one of the cages. Caedh. And Bran. That was where they had been thrown. They were naked, and they seemed to be shivering. There were manacles fastened to them. Chains. Black metal collars. He growled under his breath, barely-containable rage bubbling up from his gut. He forced himself to run faster toward the cages, only to realize when he got there and saw Caedh’s wide, fearful eyes that he had made a big mistake.

Elian heard a rush of air behind him. He spun around to see what had caused it. He jumped, startled. The men had closed in on him. They were just about at arm’s length. Elian bared his teeth in challenge to them, but they all just stared blankly at him, faces devoid of all emotion save malice. The prince summoned the full brunt of his powers, but his concentration was broken by the high-pitched whine and scream of pure agony that came from behind him. It was Bran.

The blond summoned more of the ice from within himself, but as he did, the scream only intensified. He was doing this. Somehow he was hurting Bran. He couldn’t, in good conscience, continue. He had only one choice. There was no escape. He looked at the empty cage beside Caedh’s and Bran’s, and the ice within his being vibrated with revulsion at the sight. He had no choice. With one glance toward the men surrounding the cages, Elian grabbed the side of the empty one, inadvertently pricking himself on the needle. He flung the gate open and jumped into the black metal prison.

The prince stumbled as he entered, his foot catching the edge of the base of the cage. With a grunt, he collided with the metal bars at the back. He tried to steady himself, but, eyes widening in alarm, he found himself unable to, every part of his body touching the cage stuck to it. His ice flared in rebellion, but he seemed powerless to do anything. He felt cold metal begin to creep along his neck, wrapping around it. He was being collared like the two in the other cage over.

Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, Elian managed to pull himself free just as the collar finished forming and the loop in front clinked against the metal. One of the soldiers stepped forward just in time for Gwen to come through the ring of men, knocking one of them into the loose snow on the ground. She snarled at the soldier nearest to Elian’s cage and shoved him away, holding her arm out for the black bangle that would give her control over the prince. The blond was clawing at the collar around his neck frantically, eyes locked on the commander as she slipped the bangle onto her wrist.

Something in the prince’s gut sank as the ice within him realized the magic that was at work. “Come here” said the commander, but Elian resisted. It was a mistake. He fell to his knees as searing agony flared through his entire body. He gritted his teeth. He would not allow this madwoman to control him. He called for his ice, throwing all caution to the wind. The ringing pain in his ears blocked out the screams of agony that rang out from Bran anyway.

The prince forced his hand up to the collar wound around his neck and touched it. Instantly, the pain faded, and fractals of frost exploded over the metal, curling and spiralling all over the black lustre of the strange substance. Underneath the frost, the metal turned blue, much the same as Elian’s eyes. First, hairline fractures appeared in the metal, fanning outward from the loop that was meant for chains. Then, the cracks began to widen, the creaking almost unbearable. With a final metallic scream, the collar broke in half, falling to the floor of the cage with a clang. The bangle around Gwen’s wrist shattered at the same time, earning the prince a smoldering glare and a roar of frustration from the woman.

From where the shattered remains of the collar that had tried to force bondage on the prince lay on the floor, ice fanned out, gliding gracefully over the black metal of the cage and wrapping itself around the bars. Underneath the ice, the metal took on the same bluish hue as the collar. Primordial instincts were reshaping the prison into a bunker for the prince. He had only wished that no harm come to him, that Gwen have no power over him. His ice, ancient as time itself, did the rest.

Inside the bluish bars of the cage, Elian was protected. He was imprisoned, yes, but protected from the men and women that would do him harm. The mob on the other side of the bars hissed at him from a respectable distance. They acknowledged that they had been thwarted. Gwen had no such good sense. With a roar, she threw herself at the cage, only to be flung back by an invisible force before she could come any closer.

The commander picked herself up from the ground, dusting off the snow from her limbs. She picked up her weapon and flung it at the cage, only for it to be met by a wall of ice that shot up from the ground, shattering it, blade and all. Gwen screamed in frustration, stamping her foot on the ground, but now that Elian knew she could not touch him, he ignored the woman. He turned his attention to the two friends he’d managed to make in his short time in the camp. They were in the cage beside his. Unprotected, unlike himself. Bran’s eyes were glazed over, his head lolling back as though his consciousness had vacated him.

There was a flush on the one-armed commander’s face. Clouds of frost escaped his lips from his heavy breathing. Occasional groans followed. The once-watchman had a similarly glazed look to his eyes, but Elian could see the lingering lucidity behind them. Caedh’s arms were wrapped around Bran’s midriff, his head thrown back against the bars he leaned his back upon. It was only then that Elian noticed that besides their mutual state of undress, that Caedh was bucking his hips to the rhythm of Bran’s. They were fucking. Elian blinked, closing his eyes for a moment.

He did not deserve to be a witness to something that was supposed to be so intimate. Only then did he realize that it was probably not something they were doing wilfully. The prince looked again and took note of the drying tracks of tears down the one-armed commander’s face. His mind refused to acknowledge that he had probably contributed to the once-commander’s pain. The once-watchman seemed similarly burdened, but Caedh seemed to have coped much better with the agony that accompanied disobedience. The prince hoped that his act of summoning his ice had not yet robbed the two of their remaining resistance.

His unspoken question was answered almost instantly. “Kill yourselves!” came the command from one of the men in the throng outside the cages. Elian froze for a moment, watching as nothing happened. There was a high-pitched resigned whine as Caedh’s head rolled to the side. Bran’s hand was already tight around the once-watchman’s throat. Caedh’s hands soon followed suit and wrapped themselves around Bran’s neck. Elian felt sick as he heard the two men begin to choke for air. He could hear the gasping. The frantic attempts to breathe. It was unbearable.

The prince raised his gaze to the commander standing outside. There was a malicious glee in her eyes. He would not let her win. He would not let her kill the two men whom he knew were just about falling in love, the two men that had shown him some kindness and humanity where he had least expected it: in the midst of the ranks of Vamaran soldiers. The prince’s arm shout out of the side of his cage, his deft fingers wrapping around the bars of the one that held the once-watchman and the once-commander. Rapidly, the same change that had happened in Elian’s prison happened to theirs.

Just in time, the frost wrapped around their collars, freeing them from the bondage of the black magic that had once governed the cage. The collars fell to the ground with distinct clangs as the two men started gasping desperately for air. Bran fell against Caedh, wrapping his arm around the once-watchman as slowly, lucidity returned to his eyes. The once-watchman shivered at the touch, leaning into Bran as the once-commander rested his head against the hollow of Caedh’s neck. He whispered something to the one-armed man in a soft voice inaudible to the prince.

As soon as the words left Caedh’s lips, the once-commander was wracked with sobs. Caedh followed soon after. Tears ran down their faces, the clinking of teardrops against the floor of the cage the only sound apart from Gwen’s panting. With a frustrated scream, the woman turned around. The men separated before her, letting her through the half-circle they’d formed without resistance. Elian smiled, triumphant. He had not only managed to thwart whatever evil had been planned for him, he had also managed to save his friends. He could only hope that they would find a way to escape soon enough. He did not fancy being taken all the way back to Vamara in a cage.

That being said, he did not fancy being left in the cage in the case that the soldiers could not move them anyway. Bran and Caedh met Elian’s eyes for a moment before, satisfied with what he had done to protect himself and his friends, and comforted by the hope that Jack was just lost in another world and not dead, the prince felt fatigue crash into him like a massive wave. He slumped to the floor, vision going blurry as the adrenalin leached out of his system. He panted, trying to catch his breath, before finally the world went dark.

\----------

Glaise had not fared so well on top of one of the blademanes alone. He’d fallen, and, with surprising resilience, got back up. Only, almost immediately after, he curled up on the ground, nursing a sore leg and whining as though he was about to die. Jack shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with exasperation before dismounting from the blademane that he was riding and picking Glaise up. He shook the dog-man out of his despair and tossed him over the blademane that the farmboy had been on not too long ago. With a sigh, Jack mounted the beast, making sure that Glaise was snugly secured in front of him.

The man-dog leaned over his shoulder and licked the farmboy’s face, much to his chagrin, and the amusement of Kristoff nearby. Jack scowled at Glaise, but the man-dog merely rumbled happily in response. The farmboy shook his head, gingerly wiping off the saliva that stubbornly clung to his ethereal cheek. He had to wonder if Glaise would remain in this form once they managed to find a way back to the mortal plane. If that was the case, it would definitely make their journey much more difficult.

Jack looked to the side at Kristoff with an arched eyebrow. The Mage was busy looking around, mouth slightly agape in wonder, a glimmering curiosity behind his eyes. It didn’t take too long, but it felt like an eternity before the blond looked back and met Jack’s gaze. The farmboy looked down, trying to avoid looking at Glaise’s ass-crack, at the motionless blademane underneath him. Glaise barked, a lighthearted tone to his voice. The platinum shook his head again. He would have to teach the dog to speak. He sighed and leaned his head into the once-hound’s back as he waited for something to happen.

The farmboy waited for a minute or two before, realizing that still nothing was happening, he turned his head to the side, cheek smushing against the flesh of Glaise’s back. “…What now?” The Mage turned to Jack, one of the glass birds flitting around them nuzzling his cheek. “Really?” asked the platinum, raising his eyebrow again. Kristoff merely shrugged. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen, or, in truth, _how_ to make something happen. He _wanted_ to be an expert on the Middleworlds. He was nowhere even close to _being_ one.

His mind unwittingly drifted for the briefest of moments toward thoughts of Daemon and how the Heliade had told him that his lust for knowledge of the Middleworlds was likely to destroy him. Sadly, he wondered how the sun priest would react to seeing him where he was now. In the split second, the fraction of a heartbeat in between the thought and the sigh that followed after, the world around the companions changed. It seemed, all of a sudden, as though they were moving at immense speeds.

Alarmed, Jack looked down, only to witness the legs of the blademanes moving as an indistinguishable blur underneath them, much like the trees that passed by. Regardless of the apparent speed with which they were moving, neither the farmboy, Glaise, nor Kristoff, felt that they were moving at any significant velocity at all. In truth, if the farmboy had closed his eyes, he would not even begin to think that they were speeding across what could only be immense distances in such short time. The sights around him were so disorientating the farmboy felt a bout of nausea bubble up in the part of him that was not born of the Middleworlds.

Jack heard retching nearby and watched as Kristoff heaved over the side of his blademane, no ejecta coming from his mouth. The farmboy wondered if that meant that the Mage had not eaten anything before happening upon the farmstead. Needless to say, the sight was even more discomfiting. Kristoff had a different perspective. After all, the Mage was teary-eyed from the burning sensation of bile in his throat. Jack leaned over Glaise, wishing that his arms were free from holding the hound-turned-man tight in order to wind them around his own stomach. The once-hound seemed to be more than happy to be riding at such high speeds. His tongue was lolling out the side of his mouth and there was a blissful almost-orgasmic expression on his face.

How the once-hound could possibly be feeling borderline pleasure from their plight, Jack could not comprehend. It was partly his own ignorance as to the mentality of dogs and partly the fact that they seemed to be travelling at breakneck speed without actually feeling any of it.

The farmboy’s head and gaze snapped to the side at the same time that Kristoff’s did as they suddenly heard a loud metallic nickering and the sound of galloping hooves. The farmboy’s jaw dropped as he saw, riding abreast them, an entire herd of the metallic creatures. All of them possessed blue eyes, twinkling both with intelligence and star-like dots within them. They all seemed to be travelling at the same speed that Kristoff, Jack and Glaise were, judging by the almost-identical blur of their legs. It was only then that Jack realized that they were no longer in the strange crimson forest. In contrast, they were racing across a vast silvery field. Moments later he gasped as he realized that the silvery sheen of the rolling expanse was metal. Liquid, shimmering metal.

The farmboy turned to Kristoff, mouth agape, only to find that the Mage had the very same expression on his. Kristoff reached down and tried to gather some of the liquid metal from the amount that the blademanes’ legs were splashing about. He managed to do so, but the metal leaped out of his hand almost as soon as he had scooped it up. As the metal fell by the wayside, the Mage frowned. It turned orange, then red, then brittle. By the time the glob he had managed to catch left his vision, it had turned into powder that rained onto the silvery field.

\----------

He had forgotten many things in the period of time he’d spent in the strange realm he had so suddenly, so unexpectedly been thrown into. His name, for one, was something that he had at some point let go of. There was no use trying to remember it. No use holding on to the useless fragment of his old life. It seemed to have been so very long ago since he had memory of something other than the strange ever-shifting sky above him. It felt like years, though some part of him somehow knew that it was not so. That he had probably been there only a few days, a few weeks.

It was old instinct, probably, that was speaking to him. Instinct bred into him by decades of servitude and training under the age-old order that he had found himself eventually belonging to, to his estrangement from the people, well, person, really, that he had loved so long ago. There were few things he remembered, but the face of that single acolyte that he had so long ago spent many an otherwise-lonely night with, remained forever seared into the recesses of his mind. That man had been his only true lover, the only one he had so fully offered and devoted himself to.

What was that man’s name? He found the question odd. He felt that if he remembered the face so vividly, every line, every strand of hair and ridge of bone and sinew, he had to somehow recall the name. He could not. He remembered another thing, though this memory was far less vivid. It was more like a mist that threatened to evaporate in the midday sun, only the dawn had yet to come. He remembered being told that names carried power. Here, in this strange land, he was powerless.

Moreso than he ever recalled being. He knew that when he had first arrived, that there had been some eldritch arts still accessible to him. The creation of the arcane lamps that his order so desired to use inside their gloomy stone structures was one of those small things that had evaded the grasp of amnesia that the world he’d found himself in thrust so unceremoniously upon him. Another fond memory rose to the surface of his addled mind. This one was more recent. Far more recent. In truth, he’d formed this one in this strange other world.

He reminisced, a pleasant smile dancing upon his lips as his right hand drifted inexorably down toward his bare groin. The circumstances that had brought him to this world were foggy at best, much like the circumstances that had led to this quite pleasant memory, but he distinctly recalled being lost in a crimson forest with none but yellow-eyed creatures surrounding him. They did not seem to be hostile, but they were definitely apathetic to his presence. The blademanes that had appeared frightened the living daylights out of him, but they didn’t seem to care that he was there.

_It was the first time that he realized there was an alien intelligence behind their sparkling yellow amber eyes, amongst the myriad pinpricks of light that glimmered there too. Needless to say, he had been spooked. Fearful for his life, he tried his best to make his way out of the forest. It was only when he collapsed from exhaustion, his feet sore from his tireless walking, that he realized his state of undress. He had been so focused on the creatures that seemed to materialize out of thin air around him that he had forgotten to look at himself._

_He was naked. He was ethereal. It was perhaps that second thing that scared him the most. He thought he was dead. That could not possibly have been the truth. If he had been dead, then the gods of his order should have come for him, taken him to the sacred Westerlands where they rested at the end of each day. That had not happened, at least not to his knowledge. Moreover, he was wrapped in a pulsating glow of most brilliant, brazen gold. It was almost a wonder that the aura wreathed around his nude form did not cast similar golden light across the environment._

_Nevertheless, all other thoughts were driven out of his mind as he slowly realized that the insistent throbbing in his crotch was the hardness of his manhood, poking out from between his legs as turgid and hard as the packed dirt of the ground his bare buttocks were resting upon. He remembered distinctly staring at the organ in wonder as a glob of pre-come dribbled out of the tip. He gasped upon touching the clear liquid, grazing the ever-so-sensitive and delectable head of his stiffness._

Had he perhaps been more lucid at the time rather than consumed by instantaneous lust, he may have very well realized that something was wrong, that he did not remember why he felt so denied release, or why he felt such pent-up desire within him. He did not, at that point, truly remember how he’d gotten to the strange place to begin with. Nevertheless, his mind was uninterested in those things. It was currently interested in the growing need jutting so evidently out from his groin. It was insistent. It was needy. It was throbbing. It was harder than he ever remembered it to be.

It was very much the same plight he found himself in at the moment, his manhood drawing his attention from his reminiscence. Needless to say, he found himself doing the very same thing he did that day seemingly so long ago. He distinctly remembered the world around him vanishing into obscurity as he was absorbed in the rock-hardness of his sex. Even just the heat of his hand closing around the throbbing pillar of flesh back then had been enough to bring him hurtling almost over the edge of orgasm. Thankfully he’d had the wise restraint to hold back in order to make the experience all the more pleasurable.

The man gasped as he squeezed his member gently. The pleasure was maddening. He threw his head back, hair tossing droplets of ethereal sweat arcing through the air, mouth slightly agape in sensual bliss. He had been lying flat on the firm packed earth. Not anymore. His back was arched off of the ground, hips thrusting in the same slow, torturous pace that his hand took as it slid up and down the hardness in his groin. A groan escaped his lips, a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip of his cock.

Some primal part of him was concerned only with cumming, the very same part that knew, somehow, that he’d been denied for a very long time. Being in this realm was, he knew, somewhat of a prison sentence, but strangely it was also liberating. He could not put a finger on why, what with his scattered memories, but that was how he felt: free. His hand slid up and down his cock slowly, maddeningly. He squeezed slightly, the pressure sending slight bolts of pleasure through his sensitive groin.

He whimpered, hips bucking violently against his hand, losing all ability to hold back as the sensual bliss washed over him. He shivered, hand moving up and down faster and faster as the pleasure built up inside of him. A groan escaped his lips as his nuts pulled up to his body, his member pulsing in his palm as he furiously pumped it. He teetered over the edge, until, with a final thrust of his hips to force his member through the ring he made with his fingers, he came. He came with more power than he ever thought possible. Spurt after spurt of thick white cum sprayed over his chest, the warm white seed sticking to his chest.

The man couldn’t help the sigh of relief that followed his descent from orgasmic bliss. It felt _so_ good to be able to spill his seed so wantonly, though there was some part of him that wished there was someone to share in the pleasure with him. Someone who would push into him and press into that button in his inner sanctum that would send bolts of pure pleasure surging through his limbs. He sighed, his fingers pressing insistently at his rosebud, but not pushing in.

With another sigh, he raised his fingers to his chest, swirling them around the cum there, and bringing strands of it to his lips. The salty-sweet tang of his own seed was surprising, though good. He had simply never expected to be able to cum, what with seemingly being a spirit, and, even when he found he could, he never expected it would taste so good. He smiled, eyes half-lidded, until the blademane nearby nickered at him. His eyes fluttered open. He sat up, wiping the cum from his chest and abdomen.

This single blademane, with its intelligent amber eyes, had been his only companion for as long as he could clearly remember. It had watched him do the same thing a number of times before, watching with great curiosity as he masturbated himself to fulfillment. The creature had a member of its own, though one made of the same lustrous metal as its body. The man had always watched it warily, just in case it had the wrong idea of mounting him, but the blademane seemed to be intelligent enough to understand that doing so would probably be unpleasant, or, at worst, fatal.

Needless to say, the creature seemed to be a bit more wary than usual. The wariness was not directed at the nude man who had just spilt his seed, both of them knew that he could not possibly hope to harm the blademane. There was something else on the massive metallic equine’s mind. Its eyes were fixed on a faraway point, its body vibrating slightly as though it was putting effort into discerning something that was happening beyond the horizon. The blademane nickered nervously as the air around them began to shimmer and ripple. It seemed as though the light that suffused the environment had turned liquid all of a sudden.

The naked man almost jumped from where he sat when he felt the dirt underneath his bare buttocks begin to shift. He watched with growing apprehension as the trees shrivelled away and the sky grew brighter and brighter with each passing heartbeat. There was a faint hint of heat in the air. It reminded him of something. He couldn’t tell what — his memory was still hazy — but he felt as though somehow the heat was something important. The dirt underneath him continued to shift and change until eventually it gave way to loose sand.

That realization made him jump to his feet. The last thing he wanted to do was get sand into a place where it would be entirely too difficult to remove. The blademane was less concerned about the sand, but it straightened to its full height, rivulets of sand streaming down its side as its body drained of the loose grit. The blademane lowered its neck, whinnying at the naked man. He was all too happy to oblige, jumping onto the creature and raising himself above the spontaneously-formed desert.

The blademane reacted with alarm when all of a sudden, without warning, a pillar of black glass erupted from the sand nearby. Around it, the sand was drained of its rich golden colour. The sky above it slowed its shifting, losing its colour in much the same way. Another pillar erupted from the desert. And another. And another. There were many, but they were very far apart. Nevertheless, they all shared the draining characteristic of the first. Within moments, the entire desert was gray and lifeless, save for the pillars of glass so black it seemed possible to fall into the depths.

With his heels, he spurred the blademane closer to the nearest pillar to examine it. It was definitely a new sight. Nervously, the massive creature negotiated its way through the shifting dunes toward the pillar. The man was drawn to the structure for some reason. Something called to him from within. Wanted him to fall into the darkness. He leaned over the blademane’s head and stretched his hand out for the surface of the twisted pillar. He was saved from oblivion by a bolt of energy that suddenly raced simultaneously up and down the glass. It was of brightest white edged with violet. It illuminated, for but a single moment, the creatures that resided within the pillars.

They were innumerable. They covered nearly every inch of the inside of the pillar. They looked like beetles. They were black as the glass they were imprisoned in, and they scuttled over one another. They shifted and they stirred. Up and down the pillar. It was nauseating, but at the same time, petrifying. The blademane reared up into the air, metallic screeching echoing through the bleak desert as it nickered wildly, and took off in a breakneck gallop. The man was partly thankful, but now he did not know where they were going.

He could not take his mind off of the sight that he had seen. The black pillars of glass were easily the most ominous thing he had ever witnessed. The creatures were terrifying, and he had only seen them for a heartbeat. He had only seen them from beyond the pillar that kept them imprisoned. They were many. Far beyond fathoming. He looked around as the blademane came to a stop at the edge of the desert. It seemed as though the black pillars were almost as innumerable as their prisoners. For as far as the eye could see, the man saw pillars.

He shivered. They could not possibly bode well.

\----------

The blademanes stopped abruptly, the sudden deceleration seeming to do nothing to the three riders who were startled by the environment suddenly coming sharply into focus. They were surrounded by an entire herd, each and every one had blue eyes. Glaise had fallen asleep. They had been riding for what seemed to be hours. Jack had lost track a long time ago, a haze seemingly draped over the better part of his short-term memory. Kristoff had a slightly confused look on his face. The farmboy could only surmise that the mage was feeling every bit as muddled as he was.

As soon as they stopped, the man-hound grunted and lifted his head, eyes darting about, ears twitching excitedly. Jack had only a moment’s warning before Glaise jumped off of the blademane, plunging quite a ways down to the ground. It was hard-packed dirt, but it was not the same crimson as the clearing they had been at. The red of the soil was more earthy, more natural, more clay-like. The man-hound rolled over to his back, arms folded into his side, hands dangling in front of his chest. Glaise had assumed the position of a dog asking for scritches on his belly.

The farmboy shook his head before dismounting carefully from the blademane. It was a very tall beast, getting off of it in the wrong way could easily break bones. Gingerly, Jack settled his feet on the ground before kneeling beside his once-hound and scratching Glaise’s belly. “Where are we?” he asked as he saw Kristoff dismount in a cautious manner similar to how he had gotten off of his mount. The Mage looked blankly at him for a moment before recognition dawned on his glassy eyes. “Kristoff. Are you alright?” asked Jack, concerned.

The Mage blinked twice before shrugging and nodding at the farmboy. “I don’t know where we a—” The blond trailed off as he looked around at where they had managed to find themselves, forgetting the question in the haze that then descended upon his mind. Needless to say, something disturbing had caught his sight. Perhaps most telling was the slackness that crept into his jaw as his eyes graced the obviously unnatural structure that rose from the earth a little ways away from them.

The hard-packed earth gave way to golden desert sand a handful of metres away from where the blademanes had stopped. Beyond the ridge of clay-stone that marked the demarcation between the earth and the sand, rolling dunes paraded into the distance. They were not the most notable feature of the land beyond the dirt, however. What had caught Kristoff’s eyes, captivated his muddled mind, were the walls of pale sandstone that rose from the desert floor. In the ever-present light that suffused the middleworlds, the stone seemed to gleam. There was only one place in the world with such architecture, and it was unmistakable.

The arches and banners and ornate crenellations that decorated the walls were characteristic of the nation born from the collapse of Old Vamara. Those walls were of the fortress-city of Lycc. “Kristoff!” The Mage was startled by the calling of his name. He looked down, realizing for the first time that he had been walking the whole while toward the anatopism of the fortress-city’s walls in the middleworlds. He shivered, niggling fear worming its way into his still-muddled conscious. He tried to remember what he had been doing, but found that everything was hazy. He looked at the farmboy, eyes wide and, for one of the few times in his life, genuinely scared.

“What’s going o—” Before the farmboy could finish his question, he was pinned to the ground by Glaise. Despite his considerable strength, having grown up on a farm with all the hard labour that came with the property, the hound was as strong, if not stronger. He had to wonder how he managed to push the hound off of him earlier. Regardless, he did not feel entirely too comfortable being pinned to the ground by a naked man, even if that naked man was once his trusty dog. “Glaise!” he protested as soon as the cool tongue started moving across the skin of his face.

The next thing that took place was even more unsettling, less for the fact that it happened, but more for the fact that it sparked arousal in the farmboy. His member was half-hard pressed against his stomach and Glaise’s. The once-hound was rubbing his own member against Jack’s ever so slowly. The farmboy could feel the once-hound’s full hardness sliding against the flesh of his groin and his lower abdomen. It was disturbingly arousing, and he found himself responding more than he would like.

He felt as though he was betraying Elian for being so aroused, by none other than the man who had been, some short period of time ago, his hound. Jack tried to push Glaise off of him one more time, but failed when the once-hound’s cock slid against his, sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine. An involuntary moan escaped his lips. His half-hardness went to full mast, and automatically, his hands grabbed Glaise’s head and pulled the once-hound in for a kiss. Glaise whimpered in surprise.

As the two kissed, the once-hound whined into Jack’s mouth as his orgasm mounted. Glaise pulled away and howled as his grinding against Jack sped up and his cock began to spew sticky white seed all over his master. The once-hound collapsed onto the farmboy’s chest with a contented huff as the confused platinum tried to buck his hips under the considerable weight in order to bring himself to fruition. “Kristoff… Help!” he panted as he tried to push Glaise off of him. The hound resisted. The farmboy tossed his head back and groaned. His manhood was throbbing and the need to cum was clouding his judgment.

The Mage was at his side faster than he anticipated, and soon after, Glaise was sprawled on the ground a short distance away with a hurt look on his face, droopy ears, and a tail between his legs. Jack scowled at the hound, panting, as he tried to wipe away the sticky white seed on his belly. His own manhood was achingly hard between his legs, but he didn’t feel very comfortable taking care of his need in front of the Mage. It was bad enough he’d been somewhat violated by his own dog. He did not want to take on the role of an exhibitionist after that.

Kristoff sucked in a deep breath as soon as he had freed Jack from underneath Glaise. His eyes may have been unfortunately angled toward the farmboy’s manhood, but it was not the throbbing testament to Jack’s virility that had caused him to gasp. As soon as he had touched the farmboy, the haze on his mind had lifted to something little more than an annoyance. He was able to think clearly. Somewhat. He shook his head. The walls of Lycc in the distance were still troubling, but the smell of sex in the air was almost intoxicating.

The blond was careful to hide his own arousal from the farmboy, but he didn’t have to do so for very long. Jack sat up and curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees. Jack was facing away from the desert, instead looking behind them at the mist and jagged rocks that jutted from the ground not more than a few feet away. Those had not been there moments ago. The farmboy knew as much. The blademanes didn’t seem to be bothered at all, but Jack was more than a little concerned that such deadly looking terrain could appear out of nowhere.

To the farmboy, it seemed as though the Middleworlds were a far more dangerous place than he had ever imagined. The ice at his core seemed to find this thought humorous. After all, this was where the Coldsnap had come from. Needless to say, the farmboy was concerned for his own and his companions’ safety. Glaise was a little less concerned. He padded up to his master and whined apologetically, nudging Jack’s hand and trying to find some way to sit or curl up comfortably on the young man’s feet. In his mind, the once-hound found himself wishing he still had his old body as being a human seemed to be more of an inconvenience.

The blademanes nearby nickered before they sat down to rest. They were not going to take the three men any further than they already had. Beyond the ridge of reddish-brown earth that marked the border with the desert was foreign territory. They could not go over without some retaliation from those that lived on the other side. The amber-eyes. Though they did not know it, Jack and Kristoff were in lands governed by the Coldsnap. Beyond the ridge, the Radiance held dominion.

“Look behind you, Jack” said Kristoff, eyes darting quickly to the rapidly-deflating member of the young farmer, then back to the out-of-place walls in the distance. Jack looked at Kristoff quizzically before following what the Mage said, turning his body in a way that knocked Glaise off of the most comfortable spot he’d found on his master’s feet. The once-hound grumbled and sat down beside Kristoff. The Mage jumped, glancing warily at the man, before absentmindedly scratching underneath his chin. Glaise stomped his knee and wagged his tail in response.

Jack, on the other hand, gasped at the sight. His mouth hung slightly agape and his eyes were wide in bewilderment. “What is that?” he asked, betraying his ignorance of even the most basic non-farmstead architecture. Kristoff had taken to investing more of his attention into playing with the rambunctious man-dog, ruffling the latter’s ears and cooing under his voice to Glaise. “What is that, Kristoff?” repeated Jack, making the Mage blink in confusion.

“Walls?” he said, looking at Jack as the farmboy mouthed an awestruck ‘oh’ in response. “Have you never seen stone walls before?” Jack shook his head as Kristoff grunted in surprise at the feeling of a tongue sliding across his cheek. “Stop that!” he said, wrestling the man-dog away from his face. Glaise settled for licking at the Mage’s fingers instead. “Those are the walls of Lycc.”

“Lycc?” Jack asked, confused. He took note of what Glaise was doing to Kristoff but decided that it was better that it was the Mage that his hound was annoying at the moment instead of him. He did not really know how to deal with the dog-man’s antics at the moment. Nor did he, in all honesty, know what to think of Glaise’s new, human, form.

“Has your prince told you of the kingdom from where he came?” Jack’s eyes were still examining the walls, almost glazed over with wonder at the brilliant architecture. The stonework in itself was exquisite. To his eyes, the slabs of sandstone seemed to glimmer with magic. Magic was the only possible explanation to the farmboy’s mind of how such a structure was created. The barn in his farm, marvel of engineering as it may have seemed to him, was many times shorter than the towering walls in the distance.

“Vamara?” asked the farmboy, tearing his eyes from the awe-inspiring architecture of the portion of Lycc’s walls visible to him. He turned to the mage, who was wrestling with Glaise, trying to wipe his hand on the ground while simultaneously trying to keep the once-hound away from any other lick-able part of his body. Jack couldn’t help but giggle at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation.

Kristoff glared at Jack the moment he heard the farmboy’s giggle. He shot the platinum a look as though to tell him that Glaise was supposed to be the farmboy’s problem. “Yes, Vamara. Modern-day Vamara is only a fragment of an older, far more massive empire. Lycc is one of the city-states born from the collapse of Old Vamara. It’s New Vamara’s biggest rival across the seas.”

“Old Vamara had territory in the Middleworlds?” Jack was confused. He did not think any nation, no matter how powerful, could possibly have territory in this strange and dangerous place. He did not, to begin with, know much about nations, but he was fairly certain it was alright to assume that normal people couldn’t possibly survive in the Middleworlds.

“Eaugh!” Kristoff swatted away Glaise’s tail that had managed to find its way in between the cheeks of his ass. “No. This is… strange. This shouldn’t be here.” The sudden gravity that found its way into the Mage’s voice made Jack shiver where he sat. It was just as he was trying to wrestle Glaise away from biting his ear that realization dawned on the Mage and horror descended upon his face. “No. It can’t be…” he whispered under his breath. Jack could hear him perfectly.

“The Rift might just be on the other side…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo. I hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> We're getting closer and closer to the end of this volume of Coldsnap. I'd like to know what you think so far! Please, comment if you can. It will help with motivation. *cough*I'dliketoheartheorieswhyGlaisetransformed*cough*
> 
> Oh! Also. I'd like to hear your thoughts on the landscape of the Middleworlds. 
> 
> On the other hand, the final chapters are proving to be longer than I anticipated, so instead of 29 chapters, Summer Snows may very well end up with 30-32. I hope that's not a bad thing.
> 
> No preview for next week! >:] *keeps his finale secrets all to himself*


	29. The Price of War (Part I)

“The Rift?” asked Jack, confused. He had never even heard of such a thing, not in any of the stories that his fathers had told him as he was growing up. He’d been told of fantastical creatures, faraway lands, and amazing miracles, but as for a rift of some description, it never came up. The farmboy had looked down for a few moments, deep in contemplation, when all of a sudden he heard a squeak followed by contented whining. He looked up. It seemed as though Kristoff had finally managed to get Glaise to behave. The dog-man was splayed across the Mage’s lap, his stomach being rubbed by the blond.

Kristoff looked up at Jack, trying to pretend as though he had not just been cooing at the once-hound. There was a slight blush in the Mage’s cheeks. He realized he’d been caught. With his free hand, the blond gestured toward the city walls in the distance. “It’s the remnant of the war that brought Old Vamara to its knees…” He gulped. The stories and tapestries that he’d read and seen about those times. They had been difficult to witness. There had been much blood shed. Many brothers betrayed…

It was the bloodiest war that had ever been fought in history, and there were tales from the few agents that the Order had managed to infiltrate Lycc with that the sand around the Rift itself was still red from the human sacrifice that they had done in order to open the Rift. “It’s… a testament to ignorance and evil that came from a desire for power and knowledge” Those were the words of the master that had taken Kristoff and Daemon under his wing.

The Mage could not deny the truth of the words, nor could he deny that had there been no other way to know the Middleworlds, no safer, more controlled method by which to gain the meagre knowledge that they had about the strange realm, he would have done the same thing. Had he been the Grandmaster of the Order back then, the sands of Lycc would have been stained crimson all the same, if not more. “It’s a wound, a tear in the fabric of reality. It’s where the Upperworld crosses into the Middleworlds. It’s where all the terrible monsters of our world come from.”

Jack shivered. “What is it like?” he asked, eyes focusing on a point in the distance to which the ice at his core called him to. Whether it was Elian or the Rift, he did not know. The Coldsnap was strangely silent on the matter. Perhaps that meant that the pull was toward both things. After all, Elian was probably still in the Upperworld. The farmboy heard another squeak, but this time, it seemed that Kristoff was the source. The Mage was red in the face and Glaise was wagging his tail with an almost-bashful expression on his face. The farmboy raised his eyebrow at the two.

“I don’t know…” said the Mage, admitting to his ignorance. Other than the reports, there were very few reliable accounts of the place, and Kristoff had not himself been to Lycc or even anywhere near the great walled city. What he did know was that if anything, the place was likely surrounded by intensely volatile primal magic, the kind that could spontaneously make a person grow a second head if they were not careful. That being said, however, the primal magic could likely shred any unprepared individual to pieces.

Jack turned back to face the wall, but Kristoff squeaked again. He turned around with a concerned look at the two, but Glaise was merely grinning and the Mage was flushed. Despite the aura of decay that seemed to surround him, the redness of the blond’s cheeks was quite visible. “What’s going on?” asked the farmboy, suspicious of the look on Glaise’s face and the way that the man-dog’s tail was wagging. Perhaps the Mage had made a mistake in letting the once-hound onto his lap. The farmboy thought back to what the hound had done ever since Elian had been around and found himself musing that Glaise seemed incredibly curious about human sex.

“N-nothing!” said Kristoff, though the look on his face let on that there was indeed something going on. It was only then that Jack realized that he could not see one of Glaise’s hands. The hound had found out one of the advantages of having a human body — hands. Jack could not see it from his vantage point, but the once-hound’s ‘missing’ hand was wrapped snugly around Kristoff’s cock. Glaise had seen Jack and Elian doing it once. He was curious as to how it felt. The Mage, unfortunately, responded quite positively and couldn’t help the stiffness that accompanied his manhood being handled.

Jack shook his head, suspecting just where the once-hound’s hand had found itself. He wasn’t going to stop Glaise. Gods knew it was difficult enough to get the hound off of him when Glaise had humped him in a moment of excitement. If anything, he hoped Kristoff would give in and tire out the hound, though he doubted that the Mage would last as long as Glaise might. It almost seemed as though the once-hound had something of an infinite pool of stamina upon which to draw upon.

The farmboy rose from where he sat, stretching out his legs and pushing himself to his feet. The ground underneath his soles seemed strange. It felt softer than it should. It was only when he looked down again that he realized there was more sand than he remembered. The ridge that marked the border between the dirt and the sand was much closer than it had been mere moments ago. Gripped by a sudden apprehension, the farmboy whipped his head around, finding that the blademanes had retreated a small ways away to maintain their distance from the border.

Jack breathed deeply before starting to walk toward the blademanes. It was only as he approached that he took a good long look at the herd that had accompanied them to this area just before the desert. From how Kristoff had reacted to their presence, he had assumed that the blademanes were just mindless beasts. Between the mind-boggling experience of riding with the creatures and they way their eyes followed him with an intelligence belied by their appearance, the farmboy was less convinced of that matter. As his eyes looked over the creatures, he realized that not all of them were the same, and that there were other, smaller members of the herd.

In fact, there were foals and mares among the stallions. He did not know whether those were the proper words to use for the blademanes, but they were the only ones that he knew to use. He found it simultaneously interesting and amazing that the stallions all seemed to be getting along just fine with each other, though he began to discern that it seemed as though the creatures were monogamous. There were pairs of taller stallions with the smaller mares and their foals. The farmboy had to wonder how the little things suckled. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

Nevertheless he approached the herd. As soon as he crossed an invisible line, one that quickly became apparent as he realized that the creatures were arranged in a circle, they all bowed their heads in what seemed to be a show of reverence. The farmboy was taken aback. He did not understand. Confusion and, for some reason, dread, welled up in the pit of his stomach. Thankfully, the Coldsnap settled his mind somehow. It seemed as though in the Middleworlds, the ice was far more cognisant and powerful. Jack was grateful.

The farmboy sat down beside the nearest couple of blademanes. The foals looked up from their suckling and jumped at the farmboy, nuzzling his naked flesh as they tried to find some part of him to lie against. Jack felt somewhat bad that he could no longer recognize the blademane that he had ridden on the way to where they currently were, but the little ones made him unable to hold back the smile that then graced his face. One of the foals found its way to Jack’s side and nuzzled the open palm of his lax hand. He was startled at first, but then found himself relaxing into the sensation.

The feeling of the metal that made up the blademanes’ bodies against his skin was jarring. The farmboy had never felt such cognitive dissonance. Every experience he had in the past screamed at him that the blademanes were supposed to feel like metal, yet, while they were calm, the foals especially, they felt just like warm, living flesh. Had the Coldsnap not been there to anchor his cognition, Jack was fairly certain he would have had to give up from all the conflicting signals that his senses and past experiences were sending him.

The mare sitting beside the stallion had somewhat of a concerned look about her. Her nostrils — well, at least what Jack thought were nostrils — were flared, and her tail was twitching every so often. The stallion seemed bemused at how the foals were trying, without success, to clamber up Jack’s body. The larger of the two adults, the male, nickered happily at the farmboy and brought his snout closer to his face. The blademane’s snout touched Jack’s temple and he gasped at the sudden influx of information that flooded his consciousness.

Suddenly, the farmboy understood why the creatures did not wish to cross the border into the sands. Suddenly, he understood why they seemed to revere him. Why they helped him. Why his Coldsnap seemed so powerful in the Middleworlds. That part of his person _came_ from the Middleworlds, and being there, being home, that primal part of him had more power to draw from. As for the reverence, Jack somewhat understood that it was to the Coldsnap that these creatures owed their existence, and that beyond the ridge of earth was a different realm for them, one governed by the Coldsnap’s counterpart, the Radiance.

At the same time, Jack felt something strange. It was more testament to the intelligence of the blademanes that Kristoff had so easily dismissed when they first met the enigmatic beasts. Kristoff seemed to think they were mindless man-killers, but what the farmboy received from the stallion told him that that mentality was about as far as it could be from the truth. Through the momentary bond that he’d formed with the stallion, he felt concern. It was something that he would not have expected from a horse that was incapable of more sophisticated consciousness.

The blademane, however, was concerned for its children. It told him of the strange things that had been happening in the Middleworlds of late. It told him that in the stallion’s herd’s territory, there had been more than a few mundane mortals that managed to find their way into the Middleworlds, only to be torn apart instantly by the primal magicks that permeated the place. The stallion was, it admitted almost shamefully, afraid for his foals. It wondered whether the appearance of these random mortals meant that there would be more like Kristoff who could possibly hurt them.

Jack realized that these beasts lived a relatively peaceful existence, and that the Upperworld was threatening the fragile peace of their home. The stallion feared war. It told Jack that there were other blademane herds from the other side, those that owed their existence to the Radiance, that were moving closer to the border. The next thought was something that escaped the farmboy. The period of time that the stallion told the farmboy was… incomprehensible to him. Nevertheless, from the ‘tone’ of the thought, Jack could tell that it was worrisome for the blademanes. The fact that there seemed to be something that caused such apprehension in the otherwise calm, intelligent, and in some way majestic creatures was unsettling.

One of the foals had its hooves placed on Jack’s chest. In a manner almost fond, the farmboy removed the little one’s legs from his person and instead lifted it into his arms. He walked over to the mare and set the foal down in front of her. He watched with fascination as a tongue that seemed to be an unholy amalgamation of flesh and metal snaked out of the adult’s mouth to lick the blades of her foal’s mane. The sight was unsettling, but even more so, in the back of his mind, was what he had just learned from the stallion.

The farmboy pushed himself up to his feet, and was quite surprised when a number of the stallions also rose in tandem with him. He looked around at them, and almost like a flood, he felt sympathy, empathy, and solidarity from each and every one. They all simultaneously looked at their mares, for those that had them. The others were either alone, or, suspiciously standing quite close to another stallion with not a mare in sight. Regardless, they all looked at their partners with the same kind of look that Jack just knew basic animals would not have.

The creatures looked upon their partners with love. The mares seemed disinterested at first, not even raising their heads to acknowledge the stallions. A moment passed, and Jack finally caught it, a pleasant, low hum that seemed to come from the mares. It was a comforting sound. The farmboy watched the females and saw that they were all focused on the foals. They did not take their eyes off of the little ones. Jack couldn’t help but smile. These creatures were eerily just like people, and if he understood correctly, they wanted to help him find a way back to his beloved because they could not imagine living their almost-eternal lives without their partners.

\----------

Kristoff watched with a tad bit of desperation clear on his face as Jack rose from where he sat and went off to gods know where. He was currently occupied with a rather horny man-dog, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he should react. Of course, his cock was all about being stroked, which Glaise had taken to doing because of the involuntary sounds the Mage was making, but his mind was not entirely at ease with what was going on. He was certain being a reversal was nothing to be ashamed of, however, sleeping with animals was another thing entirely.

There was, of course, the conundrum that was splayed across his lap at present. Glaise had _been_ a dog but apart from his tail and his ears at the top of his head, the once-hound was, for all intents and purposes functionally a human being. Whether to lay with him counted as being with an animal or another man, was not clear. That question was bothering the Mage, although it was quickly becoming more and more difficult to think.

The platinum-haired farmboy was a ways away from him, and as a result, the haze was returning to cloud his mind. That, along with the fact that the insistent, definitely curious stroking of his manhood by the once-hound was arousing him to almost-egregious levels, made it difficult to hold on to coherent thoughts. Glaise’s hand around his cock was a like a warm, oddly-wet glove that drove him insane with its prodding interest. His own pre-cum lubricated the once-hound’s fingers. With a mischievous grin on his face, the hound had removed his hand from Kristoff’s member and tasted the pre-cum, his ears twitching and perking up when he tasted it.

The wagging of the man-dog’s tail picked up to something just short of a frenzy. The motion of the fluffy appendage made Glaise’s backside wiggle from side-to-side in a way so adorable, Kristoff had to bite his lower lip to keep from groaning in pleasure. He looked around and saw Jack playing with foals around the blademanes. He called out for the farmboy, but Jack seemed unable to hear him. He tried two more times in vain. Unsuccessful at his feeble attempt at getting out of the sexual situation with Glaise, he turned back to the hound.

The blond had not noticed that Glaise had removed most of himself from his lap. The man-dog was still stroking the Mage’s stiffness, only this time, he was watching it intently as well. Glaise’s face was mere inches away from the rock-hard member. Kristoff could feel the white-haired man’s breath against his sensitive lower head. The blond sucked in air when Glaise tilted his head to the side and pressed his finger gently against the slit of Kristoff’s cockhead. Pre-cum spurted out around the finger, but it felt so maddeningly good. The Mage was surprised at the sensations the once-hound was able to invoke.

Kristoff couldn’t help his hand that found its way around the nape of the once-hound’s neck, pushing his face forward, closer to the dripping hardness that was bobbing up and down in Glaise’s grasp. There must have been something about the smell that drove the once-hound wild. Glaise had been painfully aroused before, but now that he was being forced even closer to the smell of manly musk, it was beyond words. His tail was wagging even more furiously, a feat that the Mage had not thought to be possible considering how fast it was already going.

The once-hound’s ears were twitching wildly and he was bucking his hips into the air as though expecting there to be something to hump. Glaise whined. He didn’t want to do anything without express permission from the mage. He looked up with doey eyes at the Mage, ears flattening against the sides of his head, ruffling his hair in an irresistably adorable manner. Kristoff lost all semblance of control at that moment. “Go ahead, pup” he growled, pushing more earnestly with the hand behind Glaise’s neck.

The once-hound yipped happily at the permission and dove in, seeking to satisfy his curiosity in the single way that dogs knew to do so: with his nose and tongue. The blond’s breath hitched in his chest when he felt Glaise sidle up closer without need for further prompting from Kristoff’s hand. Then he felt the dog-man’s nose sniffing his member up and down. The Mage’s eyes widened when he felt a sharp movement from the hound. All of a sudden, the sizable man found himself falling onto his back, the curious man-dog’s nose buried in the space between his sack and his most sacrosanct hole.

Glaise, on the other hand, was quite enjoying the manly musk of the Mage. He had no problems with the fact that the other man seemed more ethereal than normal. His admittedly, and unfortunately less-sensitive human nose was more than sure that Kristoff was still every bit as mortal as he was. The man-dog stuck his tongue out to taste the area, growling happily when he felt the shudder vibrate through Kristoff’s legs at the sensation. He lapped at the place for a few moments before moving on to suckle the Mage’s stones.

The blond’s nuts had pulled up against his body, and his cock was aching, throbbing and twitching in the air. He was about to wrap his hand around his hard length when he heard the growl from Glaise. It didn’t sound aggressive or hostile, but given that the man-dog was in very close proximity to a particularly sensitive part of his body, he did not want to provoke the once-hound. The last thing he wanted was to get bitten in the testicles. He did not know how that would feel. He did not _want_ to ever know how that would feel.

The Mage couldn’t help the shiver that he felt as the once-hound started to suckle and lap at his jewels. The sensitive skin tingled at the coldness of the man-dog’s mouth. It was a different sensation, but for some reason, it was inexplicably _so good_. Glaise’s mouth was a maddeningly pleasurable combination of warmth and coldness that had no right to exist. Nevertheless, it _did_ exist and it was currently having its way with his manhood and all the bits attached to it. The Mage bit back a moan when he felt the soft tongue run down the middle of his nuts and up part of his shaft.

There was a small part in the back of his mind that rebelled against his enjoyment of what the once-beast was doing to him. Partly because Glaise had been a dog some time ago, but also because he felt as though he was betraying the memory of Daemon. He had to remind himself that he’d slept with many other people in the years between the time the two of them had parted ways and the present day. Without being able to justify the pleasure to himself, the thoughts were chased out of his head when he felt Glaise’s tongue swirling around his cockhead.

Kristoff’s mind put up a shred of resistance against what he was feeling, but even that was swept away as soon as the hound locked his mouth over the head of the Mage’s hardness. The cold-warm mouth that had been suckling on his nuts not too long ago was now doing the same thing to his glans. The pleasure was nigh insurmountable. The blond’s hands found their way into the snowy white locks of the once-hound, grasping Glaise’s hair in a vain bid for control.

Glaise quite _liked_ the taste of the salty-sweet pre-cum that was streaming freely from the tip of Kristoff’s cock. He lapped it up gladly, sucking on the head as though a treat to get more of the clear liquid out of the thick, throbbing pillar of flesh, and flicking his tongue against the piss-slit to drink the fluid he milked from Kristoff. The once-hound ran the tip of his tongue along the underside of the glans. He whimpered, mouth involuntarily tightening around the cock in his mouth when as a result Kristoff squeezed his hands. The Mage had unintentionally grabbed the man-dog’s sensitive ears.

As a result, Kristoff yelped at the feeling of sharp canines graze the sides of his cock. It didn’t hurt too much, but it was uncomfortable enough that his member lost a bit of its hardness. That shortcoming was easily remedied. As soon as he let go of what he had _thought_ was just a particularly thick lock of hair, the once-hound dove right back into his slow milking and curious exploration of Kristoff’s cock. The Mage had to wonder where the dog had learned what he was doing.

The thought crossed his mind that maybe the hound had watched his master and the prince make love a number of times. The thought, somehow, inexplicably, made him even harder and he could have sworn the dog-man made a sound of surprise when he did. Nevertheless, the thoughts were again chased out of his mind when, with a renewed vigour, the once-hound licked and suckled his sensitive manhood. The gusto with which Glaise took to cocksucking was almost adorable, if it was not so maddeningly pleasurable. The blond sighed, thrusting his cock into the wet, welcome mouth of the man-dog.

Glaise almost gagged around the sudden increase of the length that he was managing in his mouth, but he was able to maintain his composure, though his eyes were still watery. He made a whine, protesting that he could no longer suckle the head of the cock. It wasn’t until the Mage began to thrust into and out of his mouth that the once-hound began to rumble contentedly. The dog-man quite liked the sensation of velvety-skin back and forth over his tongue, leaving behind tasty trails of pre-cum.

The hound felt the member in his mouth swell in greater excitement. Though his human, but slightly augmented, sense of smell was worse than what he had when he was a dog, he could still smell the subtle change that indicated the rapidly-growing arousal in Kristoff. A small mischievous smile graced the corners of his lips, very much like the smirk that was often on his master’s. To the Mage’s surprise, the once-hound slid the entire member into his mouth, the back of his throat massaging the stiffness. Kristoff’s eyes flew open and he bucked his hips. His hands found their way to Glaise’s head and he pressed it down on his member as spurt after spurt erupted from his cock.

When he finished cumming, Glaise yipped happily as the Mage’s hands fell to the side, spent. He pulled off of the deflating member and sat back on his haunches, tail wagging madly and cock hard and dripping between his legs. He looked at the Mage and tilted his head to the side in his characteristic manner. There was a strand of cum still attached to the side of his mouth. The sight was unbearably adorable and deceptively innocent, and Kristoff couldn’t help but blush.

It did not escape him that somehow, apparently, he had managed to smear the once-hound’s face almost entirely with pre-cum. The tell-tale glisten was something he’d seen a lot in his many years of dealing with submissive men, although, he mused, he had been the submissive partner in the little tryst with Glaise. His ears burned. He did not know why, though he strongly suspected it was because he couldn’t separate the image of the man before him with the large hound he’d met originally. Nevertheless, his eye was drawn to the turgid length bobbing up and down between the pup’s legs as his tail wagged from side to side.

The Mage didn’t know what came over him, but when he managed to get on his haunches, he growled playfully and pounced on the excited pup, pushing the man-dog onto his back. Glaise yelped in surprise, a redness creeping into his cheeks as he felt his cock throb in excitement. He bared his neck in submission. Kristoff wasn’t certain what to do, but he did what he felt was right. The blond moved in and bit the exposed skin of Glaise’s neck gently.

With a submissive whine, the once-hound went limp underneath the Mage’s weight. With a satisfied grunt, Kristoff pressed his lips against Glaise’s, teaching the man-dog how to properly kiss a lover. When they broke apart, the man-dog had a dazed, glassy-eyed look on his face, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. Glaise’s tail was swishing from side to side in obvious happiness, and his stiff member was leaking in evident arousal. The once-hound whimpered softly into the Mage’s lips when the blond grasped the hard flesh poking his stomach and gave it a fond squeeze.

With a grin that could have easily passed as malicious if not for the context of the situation, Kristoff began to stroke the hard cock up and down with the same maddeningly slow, curious pace that Glaise had suckled his. In truth, there was some part of him that was very keen on finding out how the once-hound would respond to his ministrations. The part of his consciousness that felt as though he was betraying Daemon was drowned out by the sheer lust that had fallen over his mind. He withdrew from the once-hound, leaving the white-haired dog-man with a flush on his face and slightly swollen lips from the kiss.

The blond considered just bringing the once-hound to fruition, watch the dog-man spew his seed all over his own chest, but the way Glaise’s ass wriggled underneath him had made him hard again. What better way to get rid of that problem than to bury it deep in the tight virginal sphincter of the once-hound? The bit again at the skin of Glaise’s exposed neck, and the dog-man went limp under his weight. That was an interesting reaction, remarked Kristoff, filing away the knowledge should he ever need or want to avail of it again.

All the while, the white-haired man’s fluffy white tail had not stopped its swishing from side to side, and his ears were twitching involuntarily. The once-hound whined and whimpered as Kristoff continued to pump away at the swollen hardness that jutted from his groin. There were benefits to being human, surmised the pup. Having such a sensitive cock was one of them, he supposed. Needless to say, the pre-cum was flowing freely from the tip, lubricating the large, slightly-calloused hand of the Mage as it slid up and down the shaft.

Using the pre-cum and the spit from the sucking he’d received earlier, Kristoff slicked his member. The Mage’s manhood had returned to full erection from all the rubbing and friction. Gently, he peeled back the once-hound’s legs, pinning them apart using his weight. A single finger teased at the tight pucker that was revealed, and the pup was unable to prevent the involuntary gasp that followed the light touch. With a grin, the Mage dove back in for a kiss just as he pushed the pad of his finger into the once-hound’s entrance.

Glaise keened into Kristoff’s mouth, his hands finding the Mage’s back, fingers clawing gently at the skin there. The sensation was new, and, to the man-dog, extremely pleasurable. The insistent digit made its way deeper, past the second wall of resistance. Once buried deep in the wet, velvety warmth of the white-haired man, Kristoff curled his finger upward, looking for that button that all the men he’d slept with, no matter the machismo, became blubbering messes for. He poked and prodded, and Glaise whimpered and whined, until he found it, and pressed against it, and the once-hound howled with exquisite pleasure.

Having found his mark, the Mage pressed another finger in, loosening up the hole somewhat more for what was to come soon. He didn’t want to loosen up Glaise too much. Some part of him often suppressed demanded the show of dominance. The submissiveness of the hound’s position did not help to silence that voice in his head. Gently, the Mage grabbed both of Glaise’s wrists and pinned them to the ground with his own hands, a primal growl surging from his gut. He watched as the once-hound underneath him shivered in pleasure.

With no hands, the Mage guided his cock to the waiting hole, ready and slicked for his grand entrance. With one deft movement, the blond buried himself to the hilt in the man-dog’s surprising warmth. They simultaneously groaned, Kristoff at the enveloping tightness, and Glaise at the pleasant, but somewhat burning fullness. Without losing a beat, the Mage began to pump into and out of the once-hound, the wiggling of the dog-man’s hips helping him along.

The thrusts were slow at first, building speed as time went on. As the pleasure built in his loins, Kristoff could almost feel the once-hound’s channel growing hotter and wetter. There were unmistakable spasms that only helped him closer to his goal of fulfilment. Glaise was yowling in pleasure, trying in vain to free his hands from their bondage to the ground by Kristoff’s weight.

The Mage was amused by the way the man-dog’s back arched off the ground, the way his cock throbbed as it was pressed against the skin of the blond’s abdomen, the way he bucked and sighed with every thrust that drove the Mage’s manhood deeper into his entrance. The sound of skin slapping against skin was the only sound the pair could hear. The very same sound was picking up in intensity and tempo. Faster and faster. Wilder and wilder. As Kristoff began to fuck in earnest, Glaise began to struggle in much the same way. Their coupling became more like that of a pair of wild creatures, bucking and groaning and grunting as though in heat.

Finally, buckling and falling on top of Glaise spent, Kristoff deposited a healthy load into the cool-warm wetness of the once-hound’s ass, painting Glaise’s inner sanctum walls with white. As he lay there, breathing heavily, Glaise panting underneath him, he felt the cock pressed against his stomach swell and begin spurting thick, cool-warm white cum all over their skin. It was a mess. He grinned at the dog-man who yipped at him in affirmation. Through the haze that permeated his conscious, Kristoff swirled a finger around the spilt seed pressed against their abdomens, and brought it to his lips. He suckled, enjoying the taste, but he knew Glaise would probably like it even better. He did the same thing again and brought the finger to just under the once-hound’s nose. The musk drove the pup wild. Sure enough, Glaise was licking his finger like there was no tomorrow.

As far as the Mage could tell, with no sun to rise and tell them the time of day, Kristoff was pretty sure that there _was_ no tomorrow. At the very least, not in the sense that they knew. He stared at the ground to the side of Glaise’s neck for a moment, pensive. It was in that brief moment of lucidity that his conscience broke through. He had betrayed Daemon. Slept with a beast. If the gods had not been angry at him before, they likely were now. The small voice was now powerful, and it made valid points, but tired as he was from the sexual high he’d just experienced, none of it mattered. He merely ignored the voice, too spent to care, and all too willing to let back the haze that dampened his mind for the moment.

\----------

The Mage was not aware of the passage of time. He did not recall just how long it had been since he and the once-hound had had a mutual orgasm. In the moment of rest he’d decided to take after they sexually spent each other, his mind had drifted away into the haze that had surrounded it earlier. There were some things he could no longer remember. Anything from before they arrived in the Middleworlds was like smoke. He couldn’t grasp any of it. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have been concerned. Truth was, however, he was not thinking clearly.

Anyone who _was_ lucid would probably have thought him drunk if they saw him. The blond couldn’t help but giggle when somehow, Glaise managed to flip him over onto his back. The pup nuzzled his chest, nipping at the ethereal skin there playfully, tail wagging slowly from side to side in evident happiness. The sensation of having his hole filled was strange, to say the least, for the man-dog. After all, he was male, and he had never thought he would be submitting in such a manner to another male. Glaise pawed at his face, blushing, as he realized he’d melted into Kristoff’s ministrations like a bitch in heat.

The pup whimpered, feeling slightly emasculated as the Mage’s seed dripped from his well-used tail-hole. He _had_ enjoyed it, however, and despite the threat to his masculinity, he found no reason to be afraid of something that felt so good. Had Kristoff been lucid and privy to the thoughts of the pup splayed on his chest, he would have been envious of the simplicity of Glaise’s world. To him there was very little wrong about things that made him feel good.

In fact, Glaise did not mind playing the bitch again, if it meant the same kind of pleasure as he had experienced in Kristoff’s hands. The hound had somewhat of a sense of pride. He was after all, fierce when he needed to be. He was supposed to be feared. Becoming very much like putty in the hands of the Mage wounded that pride a little, but when Kristoff pinned him to the ground, he realized that the Mage was the more powerful of the two of them. That knowledge eased him into submission. He rather liked the blond, too, and didn’t want to begrudge him his dominance.

Feeling momentarily content to lay on top of the man that had taken his virginity, Glaise swished his tail from side to side. Jack, at the moment, was an afterthought. Even then, Glaise was being affected by the same haze that had wrapped itself around the Mage’s mind. Neither of them were thinking straight. Slowly, the once-hound crept his way up the blond’s chest, a single objective on his mind: to show affection. He was going to do just that in the only way that a dog knew how. Much to the chagrin of the Mage, what followed was a cool-warm tongue licking him all over his face.

Some length of time later — Kristoff sincerely could not grasp how long it had been — the Mage felt a hand on his shoulder, jolting his mind to abrupt clarity. He jumped up, startled, knocking a disgruntled Glaise to the ground as he sat up. The Mage sucked in air, eyes wide at the sudden lucidity. Slowly, his eyes registered the hand and followed the arm up to see Jack hovering over him with a strange look on his face.

It took a moment, but eventually the musk of sweat and sex hit his nose. The Mage felt his member swell from the scent, but guilt welled in the pit of his stomach. The strange look on Jack’s face twisted into one of disdain and disapproval in Kristoff’s mind. He had not only slept with a beast, but he had slept with Glaise in particular, the hound that had probably been Jack’s best friend since the man-dog had been a true pup. He sighed and buried his face in his hands.

The Mage felt as though he’d betrayed the memory of Daemon, too. He should have still been in grieving. Thirty-seven years they had been apart, and yet, he had still loved the man that had become his rival through all that time. Whenever he had a fling, or slept with another man, he always imagined that it was Daemon, having seen the error of joining the Heliades, having run away to be with Kristoff. Even if he wanted to find knowledge and believed the Order had the best means necessary for it, the Mage would have freely given that up and gone into hiding with Daemon if it meant being together with the other man again.

The Order was merely a tool, a resource, so that he could achieve the knowledge he so desired. Leaving the Order to be with Daemon would have been a setback, but he was not without other tools. He would have found another way to get to study the Middleworlds in the way he wanted. Kristoff sighed, heart hammering in his chest. For some reason he felt extreme anxiety over what he had just done. He had never been one to care what the gods would think, but ever since the reinvigoration of his feelings for Daemon, he cared about what the deceased man would think.

“I’m sorry” mumbled Kristoff. He looked up at Jack, expecting anger from the farmboy, but he only saw a small, half-amused, half-thoughtful smile. “You’re not angry I…” The Mage couldn’t even bring himself to say what he had done. It did not help his case much that his mind had taken to equivocating his act of coupling with Glaise to fucking his reindeer. He would never have done that to Sven, and he didn’t think he would have liked it too much if Jack did to Sven what he had done to Glaise.

“You what?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow. “Fucked Glaise?” he continued. The smile on his face never wavered, even though there was some turmoil inside of him. He did not really approve, but he didn’t really disapprove either. Glaise had been the one to seduce Kristoff. He knew that much. It meant that nothing had been done that had not been wanted done. The fact still turned his stomach somewhat, but no one had been hurt. He didn’t want to think about it yet. He just forced down his objections and reassured the Mage who sincerely felt distressed. “It’s alright.”

At the very least, the Mage had not meant to do it with malice, or with intent to insult the farmboy. Jack just didn’t think it was right that his best friend for the past number of years had had his virginity essentially stolen by someone who was not even the same species as he had been. Although, the farmboy had to admit that he found it not only amusing, but in truth, reassuring that Glaise seemed to have the very same predilections as he did. He had certainly not thought that dogs could be reversals, but Glaise was living proof that they could.

Nevertheless, there were other matters at hand. Kristoff very nearly jumped again at the realization that there was a troop of blademanes not too far away. They all seemed to be determined, and they seemed to be following the farmboy. “I want to see the Rift” said the farmboy. If it was truly a tear in the fabric of reality between the Middleworlds and the Upperworld, he wanted to go to it. The Coldsnap nestled in the core of his being told him that he could use the Rift to cross over the realms.

Kristoff looked at the farmboy as though he had grown a second head, or maybe a third arm. “Are you mad?” he asked, incredulous. It was difficult enough to get to the Rift from the other side. There was no conceivable way that the side from where the beasts that were causing all the trouble came from was any less dangerous than the heart of Lycc. If anything, the most likely result of the farmboy’s harebrained plan was instant death. There was woefully little information about the Rift available to the Order, but Kristoff knew enough from what he’d talked to Daemon about that he was certain only peril awaited them. “There are beasts on this side that will tear you apart before you could even take a single step!”

Jack’s features softened for a moment, a look of fear crossing his face for the briefest heartbeat. It was quickly replaced by steely-eyed determination. He knew his prince was in danger. He knew that the man he loved was not in a very safe place. He was not about to let Elian get hurt when he could do something about it. If he had to risk visiting the Rift, he would.

“Look, even if you do manage to get through to the other side. How on earth do you plan on getting out of Lycc?” demanded Kristoff. _He_ knew what the security around the fortress city was like. No one entered the city or left it without the scrutiny of the Heliades. Even the sewers were guarded. No matter who came or went, Mater knew of it. Someone like Jack, with the fact that he held a shard of the Coldsnap in his being, was not likely going to make it out. Not unscathed, at least.

“I don’t know. I just want to get back to the Upperworld” said Jack, a little offended that Kristoff was trying to discourage him from taking the one chance he knew would at least guarantee he made it back to the same realm as Elian. “How bad could Lycc be anyway?” he asked. He was fairly certain he could probably fly over the walls. They were solid, but they did not look like they also _covered_ what they enclosed. “It’s just a city, right?” All the farmboy knew about cities, really, was that they were like villages only larger, with more people and with more houses.

The question gave Kristoff pause. He had not realized that the farmboy was so woefully ignorant of the world at large. “I know you want to get back to Elian, but Lycc is a dangerous place. It’s not _just_ a city. It’s a fortress.” The quizzical look on Jack’s face was enough to tell the Mage that the farmboy hadn’t the faintest idea what a fortress _was_. “Nevermind. What I’m saying is that you are not going to get out of Lycc. You have enemies there because of what you are. You will not leave that place alive.”

A chill ran up Jack’s spine. The words of Kristoff struck a chord. “Lycc is the heart of the empire of the sun priests. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” Dread. Jack nodded. His fathers had told him about those men that peached fire and brimstone and hatred for his kind. His mind never once thought that it was because of the shard of the Coldsnap he housed within him. The farmboy’s conscious instantly went to the conclusion, that he would be killed there because he was a reversal. Fear he’d thought had evaporated when he received his ice from Elian returned full force.

The blademanes behind him nickered, smelling his fear. They knew Jack only as the vessel of part of the Coldsnap, and therefore, like royalty to them. If there was something that made the most powerful among them feel fear, what chance did they stand against it? Jack’s breaths were coming in short, rapid bursts. He wondered if the man that had come after them came from Lycc. He felt sharp terror at the possibility that maybe it was people from Lycc that held his prince captive. That terror grew until he could barely breathe.

Kristoff was concerned. Had he said something to trigger such an attack of apprehension as to immobilize the farmboy? He was beginning to regret his choice of words. Glaise was whimpering at the farmboy’s feet. The blademanes were neighing at each other nervously. The terror receded, making way for an even stronger determination than before. Jack balled his fists. If, indeed, Elian was in the hands of the Lycceni, he could not let harm come to his prince. “I have to try.” He told Kristoff, meeting the Mage’s eyes with a burning courage he’d summoned up from the pit of his fear.

The terror was strong, but his love for the exile prince was ever stronger. Kristoff’s eyes widened. It was one thing to be ignorant and harebrained. It was another to be determined even in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversity. “I can’t let them hurt him.” The words haunted Kristoff. Jack was right. The farmboy had every right to try, even against the possibility of his own destruction, to protect the man that he loved. The thought was noble, and it did not help the guilt that Kristoff had suppressed for decades for not protecting Daemon from the fanatical church that had managed to get its claws into him.

Now Daemon was gone and he would find no forgiveness from the acolyte-of-the-Order-turned-Heliade. If he was to die unforgiven, then perhaps, he should die in the attempt of making sure neither the farmboy nor the exile prince would have to suffer through what he and Daemon had over the years. “Fine. I’ll help you. As much as I can.” Kristoff stood and grabbed Jack’s arm, clapping his own around it. It was a gesture of solidarity. The farmboy looked at the gesture with confusion. “It means I’ll stand behind you.”

A serendipitous look dawned on Jack’s face, and he squeezed Kristoff’s arm in response. It should not have surprised him, or even occurred to him, but the gesture was something done in Vamara only by the nobility. He dismissed the thought and instead took to smiling at Jack. They stood there for a moment, before the Mage coughed awkwardly. He looked down, realizing that there were still dry marks of cum on his belly. He wanted to cover himself up, though the fact of the matter was, there wasn’t anything to do so with.

Jack smiled, though it was tinged with apprehension and recognition of the gravity of their situation. The blademanes had stopped their nervous nickering. They now stood abreast of each other, strong and proud. They would help their king to find his partner, the other half of his that completed him like no one else could. They would cross the border into the wastes to which the lands of the Radiance had been reduced. The barren, arid expanse beyond the packed dirt of the Coldsnap’s realm was far more hostile than it had ever been since the beginning of all creation.

They needed to be careful, and they acknowledged that there would be some of them that would not return to their mares and their foals. They understood as much. The blademanes knew that the best chance that they had to return the Middleworlds to balance was to reunite Jack with Elian. Only they together could save the other half of creation. The blademanes under the Coldsnap’s reign were fortunate enough to retain their higher mental faculties. They would use them to try and save their cousins on the other side that had lost theirs.

Jack shivered as he felt an immense consciousness emerge from the distance. The farmboy abruptly let go of Kristoff’s arm, spinning around. The landscape had changed again. Behind them was the scarlet forest that they had woken up in. From the woodwork emerged hundreds if not thousands of blademanes. Somehow, the farmboy knew they were all male. The females were more concerned with protecting the children in case their little incursion into rival territory would provoke backlash. They needed to ensure the survival of their species, after all. Jack couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. Kristoff, on the other hand, very nearly had to pick up his jaw from the floor. Glaise was being Glaise, absentmindedly humping the air and none the wiser to the awe-inspiring display of solidarity taking place behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go!
> 
> One more chapter to go! I hope you liked this week's chapter. As always, I'd like to hear your feedback. Leave kudos if you like the story! Comment, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts so far.
> 
> I have an announcement to make, however, and I'll elaborate more as I go. Coldsnap started out as solely a fic for Jack Frost and Male!Elsa. However, in the process of making it, it has evolved into something entirely different. I have worldbuilt enough and characterized enough that those two characters are distinct from their original inspirations. I have decided that I will make Coldsnap into an original work, and I will go back and edit out a number of extraneous things, as well as change things around in the lore.
> 
> After the final chapter is posted, expect something like a month-long hiatus as I gather my wits about me for the second volume of this story. It's planned. The first handful of chapters are already outlined. I just need to finalize how I want to change things around. Coldsnap will remain available, don't worry, but this will no longer be the 'canon' first volume.
> 
> I hope that's alright for you folk that are reading this because of the RoTG/Frozen ship.
> 
> In any case, still no preview for next week's chapter! I'm just going to go out on a limb and say it's probably one of the most emotionally distressing for Jack.


	30. The Price of War (Part II)

“Bran!”

_There they were. The two reversals that had welcomed him so freely into their bed despite their evident devotion to each other and the wide disapproval of society of what they were. The commander had never thought that they were worth the hatred that they garnered from the people. He saw nothing wrong with their kind of love. It was after all, love, no matter whom it was for. The people of Vamara were merely too caught up in the faded glory of their old empire, tangled up in ancient beliefs and long gone traditions._

_Bran was glad that he had managed to create a space where they would not only be safe but also welcome. Their original troop, though sizable, was relatively small for New Vamara. The small size helped make sure that everyone would form camaraderie with each other. The two, Deilon and Eiros, were in truth two of the most loved in their little troop. The core of their men would do anything to protect their comrades. Bran fancied that he would do the same, but he had, since they had vanished unseen into the night, been haunted by guilt that he had been unable to protect them._

_Here, however, in their bed, he seemed as welcome as ever. He had both of his arms, surprisingly. He didn’t want to think about it too much, afraid that perhaps if he recognized the dream for what it was that he would lose his sword arm again. He lay in between the two lovers. They were on their sides, supporting their heads with their hands, elbows propped against the bed. They looked at him with a fondness that he had never noticed before. Perhaps the two had fallen in love with him before, only he had been too oblivious, too preoccupied by the feelings he had once held for Gwen._

_Normally, he would have wrapped his arms around their shoulders. They had done this many times before, Bran laying in bed in between the two lovers, half-dazed from the brilliant fucking he’d just given Eiros. That day, he lay in between them, hands clasped over his groin, the image of repentance and modesty. The lovers seemed to find it amusing, as they had not yet stopped laughing. Bran was merely growing more and more uncomfortable, the guilt of being unable to protect them gnawing at the edges of his consciousness._

_“I’m sorry” he finally blurted out, unable to hold it back. The laughter intensified, but when it stopped, the mirth in the lovers’ eyes replaced by profound understanding. Deilon stroked his face. Eiros stroked his arm, the very same one that he had lost protecting Caedh. The hand moving up and down his arm slowly, inexorably approached his groin. Before he knew it, Eiros had a hand wrapped around his cock. Involuntarily, he grew hard. The reversal did not even have to move his hand. The warmth alone was enough to make him tingle, stiffen, and throb._

_“It wasn’t your fault” said Deilon. “Don’t ever think we would blame you for what happened to us. It was beyond your power to stop. At least now, you’ve made certain the man who did it to us will never again terrorize those like us.” Bran was confused. What did the man mean? He didn’t recall stopping anyone. If anything, the last little while had been filled with his failures to protect the people he needed to protect. “We’ll see you again. One last time. At the crossroads that changed everything.” A few teasing, furtive grazings of his member followed, then painful wakefulness._

“Bran!” The shrill voice of his once-watchman cut through the haze of his sleepiness. As he blinked his eyes blearily, the thought crossed his mind that he’d referred to Caedh in the possessive. _His._ For some reason the thought rubbed him the wrong way. It reminded him too much of what the once-watchman had endured in the hands of the giant. Then he realized why the thought aggravated him so. The epiphany from the dream slammed into him with such force he audibly gasped. He did not know if the dream was true, but if it was, it justified the burning anger in the pit of his stomach.

It had been Gython that waylaid the two lovers with whom he had been most intimate with, and the three others who were openly reversals like them. Bran clutched his fists at his side. With the pressure he was applying on his hands, he knew his knuckles should have been white. He leaned over, wanting to push himself up from the floor where he’d been lying. It was only then that it struck him again. He had lost his entire sword-arm. Bristling anger was replaced with bitterness as he found himself falling, floundering.

It was only Caedh’s strong grasp that saved him from smashing his face against the floor of the cage, much too stunned by the realization that he was no longer whole, to use his other arm to prevent his fall. He looked up, meeting the eyes of the once-watchman for the first time since he had surrendered himself to the magic of the cage. Once he stared into those eyes-turned-pale by the ice that dwelt within, all the humiliation and debasement that he had suffered at the hands of whatever black magic had possessed his men returned to the forefront of his consciousness.

The commander’s cheeks burned with shame, but he was much too weak to shove Caedh away from him. He was much too weak to speak. His mouth felt parched and dry in the cold bitter air. He’d used it many times to clean the once-watchman’s cock as he’d been commanded to do while the soldiers watched. His throat hurt. His tongue felt like lead. His mouth tasted like cum. Awareness brought sharp pain radiating from his entrance. He’d violated himself. Allowed Caedh to enter him in a moment of weakness.

The once-commander blinked away tears from his eyes. Oh how the mighty have fallen, mused a cruel voice in the back of his mind. He cursed himself. He cursed Gython, angry. The giant had caused all of this. If not for Gython, he would never have lost his arm. He would have been able to fight. Defend Caedh. A broken sob escaped his lips when he remembered that he had not even stood a chance against the mighty, lumbering beast of a man. The giant had tossed him around like a straw doll.

Bran’s pride was hurt above all. His self-image as a man’s man, commander of armies, soldier, impeccable swordsman, and dominant male, shattered by all that had happened. The broken sound that escaped him a second time was alien to his ears. His mind couldn’t wrap around his own noises, unable to comprehend that such a glorious warrior had been reduced to a snivelling weakling. The heat on his face crept up to his ears. It stung. More so when he felt arms, thinner than his but no less firm, wrap around his waist.

The commander looked up at Caedh’s unreadable expression. He wondered what the once-watchman might think of him. Such a once-powerful man laid so low. The once-watchman probably found him pathetic, snivelling like he was after just a few days of intense pain because of disobedience and pain because of their sadistic jailors. If what the once-watchman had told him was anything to go by, he had gone through only a fraction of what Caedh had gone through.

The once-commander was taller than the once-watchman, though not substantially so. Nevertheless, their height difference did not make it less strange nor less humiliating, when Caedh pulled him into his lap. They were still both naked, and Bran had to ashamedly admit that Caedh’s mere presence was titillating for his body. He had not cum during the entire ordeal. He blinked. No. That was a lie. He _had_ cum, but he never _came_. His manhood sprang to life, aching for the release of his pent-up desire that had been denied of him for so long. Caedh looked down in surprise at the swelling piece of flesh between his once-commander’s legs. It was enticing, but if the look on Bran’s face was anything to go by, it was a deadly fruit.

The once-watchman pointedly ignored the evidently-erect cock jabbing into the skin of his stomach. Instead, he wrapped his arms even tighter around Bran, letting go, and pulling back to share a meaningful look with his once-commander. There was no doubt in his mind, fogged as it was with pain and guilt at forcing Bran to endure some of what he had endured at the hands of the giant, that he had fallen at least partly in love with the one-armed man in his lap. Glazed, watery eyes were what he found looking back at him. Then away.

“The prince…” began the once-watchman as he turned his head to look into the other cage where Elian lay sprawled on the floor, seemingly sleeping peacefully. He owed the young man his life. His loyalty. He would remain forever loyal to the man that had saved him from the torturous years of his servitude to Gython, but he would also willingly follow his prince off the edge of the earth if so needed. The kind young man was exactly the kind of person that he wanted on the throne of Vamara. For too long, bloodshed had been their primary export.

“He saved us…” croaked Bran, managing the first, painfully difficult words that he had said since the entire ordeal began. His body spasmed as he recalled the pain that disobedience had caused in him. The once-commander tried to keep back the tears, but one managed to worm its way past his defences. It rolled down his cheek. Caedh wiped it off gently, with a sympathetic glance. Bran averted his eyes in shame. What a warrior he was, unable to endure the pain that had coursed through his veins when the once-watchman seemed to do it with ease.

Caedh guessed at what his once-commander was thinking. He didn’t know exactly what was running through Bran’s head, but he knew it could not possibly be good. He remembered the first night Gython had taken him. He had given in. He just wanted the pain to stop. He just wanted to be finally able to release his pent-up frustration. He remembered that after, the only thing he could think about, was how he had so willingly emasculated himself. Given himself over so fully to the giant. Not once did the thought cross his mind that he had just been desperate.

With a firm hand, the once-watchman took the once-commander’s chin and turned Bran’s head to face him. The once-commander wilted in the intense gaze that followed. Caedh seemed to be boring into his very soul, trying to discern the workings of his turbulent mind. What the once-watchman saw was likely exactly the same look he’d had in his eyes after that first day. Then the day after that. Then the day after that.

There had been no one to reassure him that he had not changed, that submitting to the giant did not make him any less of a man, especially under the threat of pain or worse. He did not want his once-commander to suffer that same fate. He didn’t know if the one-armed man would believe him or even listen to his words. He did not even know if, had there actually _been_ someone to reassure him, he would have believed. Nevertheless, it was better to try and fail than to not try anything at all. Caedh breathed deeply. Bran flinched. “You are still every bit the man that saved me from Gython, commander…”

At those words, Bran seemed to smile in relief. His tense shoulders slumped. His head ducked down, eyes staring straight at his deflating manhood. Caedh felt his spirits lift. His heart soared slightly. He had managed to help his commander, his lover. It was only when he felt the tell-tale splattering of droplets on the skin of his stomach, that he realized he had done no such thing. Bran was shaking; his remaining hand, still balled into a tight fist at his side. The once-commander looked up, self-loathing evident in those pale eyes. “I wish I was.”

\----------

It took them a little bit to get all the blademanes organized. There seemed to be an unspoken leader among them, even between the evidently different herds. They all seemed to bow in deference to the one that Jack was currently riding upon. Whether it was because of the presence of the Coldsnap’s Avatar on the stallion’s back or whether it was because somehow the farmboy had chosen the blademane alpha, he could not tell. Regardless, he conversed with the stallion, somehow able to understand exactly what the creature beneath him was communicating to him.

There was a ball of dread in the pit of Jack’s stomach, and with the passage of time, as unclear as it was in the Middleworlds, it only grew greater. The stallion alpha had made it clear to the farmboy: given the current state of the Middleworlds, crossing over into the territory of the Radiance would be an open declaration of war. The blademanes on the other side might have lost their ability to think critically, their freewill subjugated by those that controlled the Radiance, but they were still strong and intelligent. There were also other creatures on the other side that had _not_ lost their higher faculties.

The blademanes needed to be ready for war. They — the ones on the Coldsnap’s side of creation — were the stewards of their lands. They needed to care for the territory that they encompassed, the realm of the Coldsnap. There were others yet lurking in the depths of their territory, ancient creatures capable of such feats of strength, but unless the war escalated beyond the blademanes’ control, they needed not be disturbed from their normal existence. When everything was in place, each herd under Jack’s command assembled in a formation he instinctively made them take, the alpha reared on its hind legs and let loose a loud screech.

It was only one word, though perhaps ‘word’ was not the best term for what the alpha did, but it amounted to a bid for victory and glory. The one pure sound that made Glaise whimper and Kristoff plug his ears, was a battlecry and a lament for those that would not make it back. There was a near-deafening stomping of hooves that followed. Then, a hum that rattled Jack’s bones. Each and every blademane that was involved in the incursion was vibrating his blades in a gesture of solidarity.

All their preparations for battle complete, they crossed the border into alien territory. As soon as the group set foot on the other side, the world around them shifted. Gone was the forest that they had come from. Gone was the small ridge of earth that marked the edge of the Coldsnap’s territory. All around them was seemingly endless desert, with rolling dune upon rolling dune. The only difference was, to Kristoff’s knowledgeable eyes, the absence of wind. Jack did not know any better. All he knew was that he was looking at a vast expanse of sand that he found difficult to believe existed in the Upperworld, let alone in the Middleworlds.

The other blademanes maintained their formation. The alpha’s herd gathered around the three riders in the middle. Glaise had finally learned how to stay put on top of a blademane. However, to say ‘learned’ was a bit of an overstatement. The man-dog was hanging on with his teeth. Jack tried to teach him the basics of hands, but there had been no time. The once-hound had started off clinging to the blade-mane with his hands, though quickly, the farmboy supposed, baser instincts took over and he held on using the one thing he knew to use: his teeth.

The farmboy looked around. The place was suspiciously peaceful. From the way the alpha had talked, he expected there to be an army waiting for them on the other side of the border. The desert sands were eerily empty, instead. Nevertheless, the alpha’s eyes darted from side to side, as though expecting an ambush to come. Jack shook his head. That wasn’t possible. There was no one coming toward them from anywhere, as far as the eye could see. The alpha nickered a warning to the boy.

The Middleworlds did not function the same way as the Upperworlds. Sure enough, no more than three heartbeats after the message got across to the farmboy, it began. The only warning that Jack had was a loud, metallic screech. Immediately after, a cloud of dust erupted around them, and he could hear the din of metal clanging against metal. The farmboy tried to shield his eyes from the sand, but found that it did not hurt him. Glaise seemed to be a bit better off than Kristoff, who was coughing and barely hanging on to his steed.

The din was uproarious. As the cloud settled, Jack was greeted to a sight that he never thought he would see in his life: carnage. There was no blood. Only shards of metal flying every which way and dissolving into either blue or amber flashes of light as they did. There were easily as many if not more blademanes with amber eyes opposing the farmboy’s forces. For once in his life, Jack was forced to reevaluate what he knew of terror. The only terror he’d known his entire life was secondary, forced upon him by his upbringing and his parents’ legacy.

This was different. This was real. This was true terror. This was far more visceral than he had expected, and he, ignorant young man as he was, was completely unprepared for the horrors of war. He couldn’t help himself. His bladder would not cooperate. He let loose a stream of urine onto his steed. The liquid trickled harmlessly to the ground where it was swallowed whole by the sand, as though greedy and thirsty for any sort of hydration. The alpha nickered in annoyance. The foals’ expulsions were difficult enough to deal with, the noble stallion said. He did not need Jack pissing on his back.

The farmboy blushed through the terror that gripped his heart. The question rang loud and clear in his ears when he stallion beneath him began to hum. The other blademanes surrounding their little contingent were fighting off the enemy quite well. They were the best warriors of their people, after all. _“Shall we turn back, Coldsnap? You have started a war, yet it terrifies you. Fear is good. Fear keeps you from being foolhardy, but it is also crippling. We will retreat and fight another day if that is what you wish.”_

Jack froze on top of the stallion, thoughts whirling as rapidly through his mind as the duelling blades that were spinning madly through the air nearby. It would be better if they retreated. Their little cohort may have been holding back the enemy well enough, but the rest of the blademanes were not so fortunate. They were not all well-versed in combat, and they were ever so slightly outnumbered. They would be overcome. It was just a matter of time. _“Need I remind you of your prince?”_ The thought of Elian being hurt and in trouble kindled a courage he didn’t know he possessed.

Defiantly, the farmboy pressed his hand against the stallion’s chest. “No. We will continue.” The stallion craned its neck, a feat that the farmboy supposed was incredibly difficult, and fixed Jack with its deep, entrancing blue eyes. Jack shot it an apologetic smile, but the creature made a hacking, screeching, metallic noise that was impossible to discern. It was only a few moments later, when it had stopped, that the farmboy realised that the stallion had been laughing at him. “Your brethren is getting slaughtered. How can you make light of that?”

The stallion looked at him, eyes twinkling as though to say _‘That is exactly why one must make light of it.’_ The blademane rumbled, and began to trot forward, the cohort of other stallions around them following suit. They were surrounded by a so-far impenetrable shell of blademanes protecting them from the amber-eyed ones. The protection would only last so long. _“They will return when their days come,”_ vibrated the alpha as though to reassure Jack and to settle his guilty conscience. _“You are foolhardy, but that is what love makes us. They will be honoured to have fought to reunite you with your intended. Fear not.”_

\----------

Elian woke with a start, disorientated but otherwise well-rested. The last thing he remembered was smug satisfaction that he had managed to fight off Gwen and her horde of puppet-strung men singlehandedly. Well, he had been empowered from absorbing the other shard of the Coldsnap. The thing inside him was now trying to settle itself, trying to recombine with the shard already in his body. The prince instinctively knew that he would be passing out often over the next little while. Reuniting the two shards would take a lot of energy, his body seemed to tell him.

As soon as he stirred from where he lay on the floor of the cage — surprisingly comfortable for a cold metal surface — he felt a hand on his forearm. He looked up and followed the arm to its owner. Caedh was reaching over from the other cage, his shoulder partly out of the cage in order to reach the prince. There was a relieved smile on the once-watchman’s face as Elian blinked blearily, trying to wipe the sleep completely from his eyes. It felt great to see a familiar face, though the gratitude shining through the tears in Caedh’s eyes was jarring to the prince’s hazy mind.

“Thank you” were the first whispered words from the other cage. Caedh looked as though he was about to weep. Elian had to admire the once-watchman’s strength. The other man seemed to be able, mostly, to control his emotions. Elian looked over the once-watchman’s shoulder and saw that Bran was sleeping in a corner, his single arm resting against his stomach. The once-watchman’s eyes had followed his, alighting briefly on the once-commander’s sleeping form with a brief pang of pain. “He’s weary, Elian. He has been through so very much these last few days.”

“And you?” asked the prince, not wanting to let the once-watchman get away with whatever he was struggling with. The prince knew the look in Caedh’s eyes. There were dark things, demons that haunted him, that he wanted to deal with alone because he thought that no one else should be worrying about him. He’d seen the very same look before, very often when he was looking at polished metal or at the surface of a still pool. He had been in a similar position himself. He didn’t want Caedh to think that keeping it all to himself would do him any good. Elian had not had a choice. The once-watchman did.

Caedh’s eyes darted quickly to the sleeping commander. “He’s been painful to watch” admitted the once-watchman. “But I can’t let myself give in to that pain because I need to be strong for him.” Elian nodded. He understood. Perhaps he would never understand fully what was going on between the two men in the other cage, but he at least understood not allowing his pain to rule him so that he could be strong for someone else. He’d tried that for Jack. It turned out he wasn’t very good at it.

“He’s destroying himself. He’s doing to himself what Gython did to me…” said Caedh. He had watched helplessly over the last little while as lust would roll over the once-commander’s face, his member stiffening in response. He had watched unable to do anything as Bran fingered his swollen entrance, sniffing the cum that still lingered there. He watched an almost blissful look on the commander’s face. Then, almost as quickly as it had all come, tears, anger, self-loathing. “He not only lost his sword-arm recently, he thinks he’s also lost his manhood because he wasn’t able to resist the magic of the cage”

Elian opened his mouth, about to offer consolations. Caedh shook his head sadly from side to side, knowing what the prince was tempted to do. “It will only hurt his already-fragile ego even more” explained the once-watchman. Sadly, and, he knew, quite unfortunately, they could not afford to make it seem as though they were coddling the once-commander too much. Bran did not have to work through his problems alone, but if they came across as far too concerned, it would only add insult to injury.

The prince nodded, pensive. Deep inside, his heart was turbulent. He wanted Jack nearby. Maybe the farmboy would have some words of wisdom for the once-commander. Granted, the wisdom that the farmboy knew was handed down from his fathers. It still helped. It helped Elian come to terms with himself what seemed so long ago. He wanted to help Bran, but was at a complete loss as to what to do. He understood why consolation would only make matters worse, he didn’t want Bran to think even more that he was a broken thing worthy of pity.

“Don’t worry too much about him…” reassured the once-watchman. It seemed as though his duty was to reassure everyone. He shook his head sadly. He was training to be a physician before all the madness set in. It was probably good practice. “He’s a strong man—” the once-watchman paused. He’d said the words loud enough for Bran to hear had he just been feigning unconsciousness. Caedh turned to look at the once-commander. No reaction. “—and he’ll get through this. I’ll do what I can for him. You’ve saved us enough already.”

“I’m sure he is, Caedh, but…” the prince trailed off when the once-watchman shook his head. He had been about to insist helping the once-commander himself. After all, he felt partly responsible for the ordeal that the two other men had gotten themselves in. The grim but sympathetic smile on the once-watchman’s face made it clear that it was not up for bargaining. He might have been the prince of Vamara, but not even he could probably convince the determined lover of otherwise. “Alright, but… I feel responsible for this whole situation. I… I want to do something.”

Caedh glanced at Bran again. “He saved me once. I owe it to him to try and do the same.” The once-watchman reached across from the cage he shared with the one-armed commander and took Elian’s right hand in his own. “You saved us from each other, too” said the once-watchman. The tone of his voice seemed to say ‘ _and don’t you forget that.’_ Caedh’s pale eyes darted around. “But we need to escape. We can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before… gods-know-what happens.” The grip around Elian’s hand tightened. “We need help. We need allies.”

Elian nodded, understanding the sentiment of wanting to save Bran as well. He had been there. Jack had saved him from himself. There was a reason that he had wanted to save Jack from the evil men that had been after him, a reason that he had killed two men that day, that he had allowed himself to be violated so that the farmboy would not suffer the same fate. Bitter laughter escaped his lips at Caedh’s last thought. He knew Jack was getting nearer with every passing moment. The ice at his core could feel it.

Nearer, yes, but he could not tell from which direction. It was almost like Jack was north of the northern edge of the world. South of the southernmost lands. Elian knew why. His beloved was somehow trapped in the Middleworlds, but getting closer to the Upperworld. “Jack is coming.” Caedh’s eyes lit up. “But he won’t be here for some time. I know that much. He’s trapped in the Middleworlds.” Caedh’s face fell. “I don’t know, Caedh. There is no one that can help us. No allies nearby. I… I caused much misery. There won’t be anyone willing to help even if we could get a message out.”

“Can’t you give some of our soldiers strength to fight whatever magic is controlling them?” asked the once-watchman, much to the puzzlement of the exile prince. “Before I was taken away. Before Gwen captured you. You did something that gave me strength. Can’t you do that for the others?” There was a strange sense of excitement brimming in the once-watchman. If the prince managed to do it, they would be able to escape, and maybe start anew elsewhere. Elian’s eyes widened as the epiphany hit him, and his ice told him it was possible.

“I swear it, Elian, they are not as bad as you may think…” whispered Caedh. He did not really know that. He had been with the company of men that Gython headed for almost the entire journey. The kinder folk of Bran’s original troop were often isolated from him. He heard the stories that they shared on the long nights he held watch, though, and in the beginning of his ordeal with Gython, he’d found himself wishing he could sit down and join the others and forget about the giant.

“I-I’ll try” said the prince, deferring himself to the far more expansive knowledge of the Coldsnap within him. Even that was in flux. The two shards were still trying to combine within his body. Caedh smiled gratefully at Elian. The exile prince nodded before shifting his position in the cage. He sat in the middle, legs crossed, eyes closed. He tried to calm his still-racing heart, and as the beating slowed, it became a rhythmic chant in his ears. Elian expanded his mind through the Coldsnap, sensing each and every person in camp who had been graced with the power to control ice.

They were pinpricks of light in his mind’s eye, though they were all bound by strands of red-black shadows. Many of the lights were dim, as though the men that they represented had given up. Those would not do. Elian reached out for the brighter lights, the ones still struggling against the encroaching darkness. The Coldsnap told him that his strength was limited. He could not save them all. Exasperated but still grateful for the chance, the exile prince touched the brightest lights and watched as the shadows binding them dissolved into nothing.

Elian opened his eyes, sucking in air, when his meditation was broken. His eyes were wide. Wild. He looked at Caedh, who looked back at him concerned. He smiled. Then exhaustion overtook him and the world went black again.

\----------

The battle was long and brutal, with neither army of blademanes willing to give ground to the other. They were a proud race, and consequences be damned, they would fight to the end for the sake of the power that held dominion over all of them. Jack couldn’t bear to look around at the carnage he knew he would find. Even in the middle of the dying din of battle, he could hear the last, metallic screeches as blademanes finally gave into their injuries and passed on into whatever afterlife they had before waiting to be reformed.

Kristoff looked grim, but his knuckles were white against his side. The fear emanating from the Mage was almost palpable in the air. Glaise was growling softly under his breath, eyes darting from side to side as the battle raged on around them. They had a problem. The little cohort that they had to protect them as they slowly made their way to the walls of Lycc was dwindling. The alpha expressed his concern that they may very well just have to make a run for it if things got any worse. Jack didn’t think very highly of that plan, though he understood that it might very well be necessary.

They were outnumbered, and in enemy territory. For the battle-hardened stallion that led the charge, he knew very well that their quest was already an up-hill battle. Jack had not been aware of just how difficult it would be, and now the blademanes were paying the price. Nevertheless, they gladly paid it. They would see their ruler reunited with his intended. It was what the Coldsnap demanded of them. It was with great surprise that the stallion heard the cacophonous screeching that accompanied the arrival of help. It seemed as though all the mares that did not have foals or were paired off to one another had joined the battle.

The alpha had a few choice words to say about that, considering that they would be leaving the foals more vulnerable than warranted, but he was glad for the reinforcements that, to the farmboy, seemed to materialize out of thin air. The boy would have to learn of the ways of the Middleworlds. The avatar of the Coldsnap still seemed to think like a mortal. There would be time for that at a later date. The alpha was sure of it.

For now, they had a different mission. The alpha’s mate was among the contingent of females that had showed up to bolster their numbers. Her presence, while slightly reassuring, created more consternation than it did support. Who was guarding their foal? Her sister, it seemed. Jack was startled by the mare walking up to his mount and nuzzling the stallion. He found the sight endearing, but at the same time, it made him long for his own lover even more. If he was going to die in the middle of battle, he wanted to die fighting alongside Elian more than anything.

He surmised that was what the mare’s sudden appearance was about. With their forces bolstered, they were able to press forward faster. As their guard fell away, keeping the enemy blademanes at bay, they drew closer and closer to the gleaming walls that separated them from the Rift, the farmboy’s way home to his love. Jack decided to risk looking back for one moment. There were blademanes that had died in order to get him this far. If he managed to find his way back to his prince, he did not want to just forget them and their sacrifice.

The sight that greeted the farmboy was sickening. There were metal bodies strewn all across the sand, some of them already sinking through the loose dunes. Most if not all of them were mangled. Large hunks of metal buried in the sand were dissolving into blue or amber flecks of light. It was carnage. The farmboy couldn’t help the tears that came to his eyes then and there. So many dead. So many giving up lives and futures in order for him to find his way back to the young man that had captured his heart so quickly and unexpectedly.

The farmboy vowed never to forget those that had fallen that day. A single tear fell from his cheek and where it landed in the sand, a tiny blue flower with crystalline petals bloomed. Neither he nor his companions noticed it because as soon as he turned back to face the walls, the world around them shifted. The farmboy heard the cacophony of battle instantly drop away into eerie silence. Only he, the Mage, his once-hound, their three mounts and the mare were left of the company that had brought them to the edge of the walls.

The two other steeds nickered nervously. The alpha screeched scathing reprimand at the two. They were his lieutenants. They were supposed to be more courageous than this. Nevertheless, there was anxiety in his chest as well. He had not known that there was a path by the walls. None of them had. Now they were elsewhere, and neither he nor his mate could find the path back. They were wrapped in a darkness uncharacteristic of the Middleworlds. The sand underneath their hooves seemed strange; sticky, even. The stallion narrowed his eyes, realizing that massive walls towered around them, joining together in an enormous dome overhead.

It took a moment, but almost simultaneously, the metallic tang of blood hit the four blademanes and Glaise. The dog-man’s low-pitched growl echoed in the immense chamber, though it didn’t manage to scare away the looming darkness around them. Jack found himself wishing for light. There was a dull boom from somewhere in the dome. Torches sputtered to life with blue flames all around them. They were in a fortress. The walls seemed thick and intimidating. The unbroken pillars around them reached for the dome high above. There were other pillars whose shattered remains lay across the dark ground.

The farmboy dismounted, but he almost immediately regretted that choice. The ground had looked dark and tarry. He had assumed it was just particularly rich dirt. He had been wrong. The ground just felt absolutely wrong and disgusting underneath the soles of his feet. Jack bent down to get a further look at what was between his toes, having to fight a wave of nausea as soon as he realized that it was blood-soaked sand. He heaved to the side, though he had nothing in his stomach to vacate. “What is this place?” he asked, his words echoing softly in the vast empty chamber.

“An evil place” said Kristoff, who had done the same. The Mage was rubbing the sand in between his fingers. They came away with red streaks where the sand had been. The Mage tried to dig deeper, but only found more sand and blood, coagulated more and more until it was impossible to move. There was not a single dry grain of sand in the entire room. It was cavernous. It seemed empty. There were pedestals here and there, cracked with age and stained by blood in much the same way as the sand.

The farmboy could feel a deep, dull pain in the core of his being. The Coldsnap did not like this place. Neither did the blademanes nor Glaise. They could all feel the suffering that had happened there. It was thick in the air. Like mist. As soon as the thought crossed Jack’s mind, a thick fog rolled into existence all around them. The farmboy could barely see past the bridge of his nose. Kristoff and Glaise were only shadows in the thick curtain of condensation.

The swirling clouds of fog felt cold, but not in the damp, wet kind of way. They felt clammy, as though death itself. The cold cut to the bone, not like the cold of winter. This was the cold of sorrow, and the Coldsnap didn’t like it. Tendrils of mist drifted close to him, but the ice within him, having grown volatile in the place they’d landed, shot out bolts of frost that arced out and drove the mist away. Jack kept his had on the side of the stallion that led him to the damnable place. Without warning, he found himself floundering for support.

That was when the whispers began. _Pain. Suffering. Loss. Hate. Hopelessness. Death. War. Bloodshed. Grief._ The farmboy clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the words that each sent a lancing pain through the very core of his being. Every word elicited an agonized groan from the farmboy. Every syllable struck him with the force of a rawhide whip. Jack dropped to his knees, seeing for the first time that the blood-soaked sand was not entirely uniform. There were pairs of rubies embedded in the coagulated mess.

The rubies rose from the ground, supported by smoky black bodies that seemed to phase into and out of existence. Wisps of shadow flew every which way from the sinuous forms that took shape. The strange creatures circled the farmboy. Somehow he could feel their eyes boring into him, searing his very soul. He shivered and cried out for help, but found that not even his voice would come to his aid. Jack clutched at his throat, trying to will his voice into obedience, but it would not acquiesce. The serpentine creatures of shadow circled him, beady ruby eyes trained on the farmboy in perpetuity. _“We are the Lamia. We are the sufferings of all those whose blood spilt upon these sands. Take of our venom and know of their pain.”_

With a simultaneous hiss, all of the serpents surrounding the farmboy bared their ruby fangs dripping with crimson venom and struck. As the creatures faded away, their ruby eyes dropping to the ground, the Jack felt the world around him change. He did not see how the place shifted. All he saw was darkness that faded into nothingness at the edges. True oblivion. True suffering. He curled up, the agony screaming through his body more painful than anything he had ever had to endure.

\----------

_He was just barely a man, not even three weeks from his day of manhood, when he’d been required to do what he thought was most shameful in front of the gods. He’d been forced to spill his seed in front of the altar to the gods. It was to present proof that he had left the realm of boyhood and entered the lofty heights of manhood. Tyr was convinced it was just so the perverted priests would have a good reason to look at a young, virile body in the throes of sexual ecstasy. At least he hadn’t been made to do it in front of the soldier Balder whom he’d admired from afar for so long._

_The last thing the lad expected on that fateful day was to be picked off from the streets, blinded, and brought to somewhere in the heart of the desert without any explanation whatsoever. He had been so afraid that he had soiled himself on the way. Needless to say when they had arrived, he had been surprised that he was pampered and cared for, even if the piece of cloth binding his eyes and the manacles binding his hands were never taken off._

_He had had a good meal, and they cleaned him. No one spoke a word, but there seemed to be an energy in the air that Tyr couldn’t help but like. In all honesty, between the pampering and the amazing food, he had very little to complain about. There was the absolutely shameful part where he was filled up with water, not through his mouth but his other end, and forced to squirt it all out in order to cleanse himself. He did not know the purpose it served, but the sweet wine and cheese that was his reward after the ordeal made everything better._

_There must have been something in the drink because the next thing the boy knew was that he was in the middle of nowhere, bound by his hands and feet to a gleaming sandstone pedestal. He looked around and there were others similarly bound. There were twelve pedestals in all, arrayed all around a central point where two smaller plinths stood across from each other. He had no idea where he was or why he had been brought there. All he knew was that everyone else seemed to be in far worse condition than he._

_Everyone else had a haunted, fearful look in their eyes. Tyr saw his father in the distance, standing by a pavilion just over the ridge of a dune. He tried to call out and ask what he was doing, but his voice would not follow his own whims. A sickening terror gripped the young man’s heart as he started to struggle against his bondage. The prisoners immediately to his right and his left looked at him with pity and with resignation. They seemed to say, with their eyes, that there was no use. The chains were held too fast._

_Tyr began to weep. His father locked eyes with him, but where there should have been warmth and support and a screaming man demanding for the release of his very own son, his own flesh and blood, there was only a forced coldness and a refusal to acknowledge any relationship with the struggling youth. What was going on? He needed to know. He had been living in fear of the rebellion that was taking place in the Empire for so long. Was his father part of the rebellion? Had he been captured because his father had instead thrown him into the fire?_

_His questions would never be answered, but his fear and his anger only grew as time passed and the sun climbed to its zenith. It was then that the young man felt the rough hand against his cheek. It was bare, the skin slightly calloused. “The pain won’t last very long, boy. Be strong” came the gruff command. It was a voice that the boy knew very well. It was Balder. He wanted to beg for his freedom, but again his voice would not work. Perhaps there had been something else in his drink that prevented him from crying out._

_Tyr had not even realized he was wearing ivory robes, but it all came into sharp focus when he felt the fabric near his behind get lifted into the air, exposing his virginal entrance to the sweltering heat and, shamefully, the eyes of the soldier that had touched his cheek. The young man had no warning, only instant pain as Balder pressed something long and hard and warm into him. It took him a moment, through the haze of pain, to realize that he was being violated by the man that he had so looked up to for so long._

_He screamed out in pain, or at least tried to, his voice would still not come. He begged his father silently to come and deliver him from the searing agony that he was experiencing. He had fantasized that the married man would someday take him under tutelage and teach him not only the ways of the sword, but the ways of loving other men. He had fantasized that his first time would be sweet and slow and tender and pleasurable. He had never, not in all his years, imagined that it would be so brutal and painful._

_Balder offered him no quarter, but the soldier was racked with guilt as he did the gruesome deed of breaking the first of the twelve laws: “Damned be he that violates the trust and admiration and virtue of one who looks up to him. Such admirers should be nurtured and taught, not taken advantage of.” The thrusts came hard, and fast. They were brutally so. For Tyr, every stab of the man’s sizeable member into his virginal entrance was a searing lance of pain up his ass. They just kept coming. And coming. One after the other, until the boy felt something inside him break._

_Then he felt the gush of seed up into his hole, and after, the withdrawal of the unwelcome invader. His admiration betrayed, his body violated, his innocence destroyed, the young man could not help but curl up into a ball, staring blankly at the spot where his father had been standing, watching without hint of mercy as he was brutally taken. He sobbed, but no sounds would come. He wept, but no tears would fall. The only thing that left his body was the seed and blood that leaked from his abused entrance._

\----------

_“Dearest please…” begged the wretched creature that lay at his feet, in the middle of the sandstone pedestal that had been polished until it shone in the bright desert sunlight. The man on the pedestal was groveling in the middle of a pool of blood. Two small children beside him bled their youthful blood onto the otherwise pristine stone. They were his children once. No longer. And this man, he was his lover once. The man to whom he had promised his hand in union before the gods of eld, the man with whom he had vowed he would spend the rest of eternity with._

_“Do you not recognize me Balder?” whispered his once-husband. “Clean the blood from your eyes and see your love kneeling at your feet. Please. Don’t do this…” The soldier squeezed his eyes shut. The Tower’s decree had been clear. There were sacrifices to be made so that the war might end. Even as they spoke, the final pieces were being moved into place. “Please, Balder…” The other man had very clearly been weeping. His eyes were red and puffy, tracts of tears ran down his cheeks, lined with sand that were stuck there by the wind._

_The poor bloodied man held limply the lifeless body of his son across his lap, the throat of the child bleeding freely onto the once-ivory robes that he wore. The other child, the blood-child of the man that stood before them with his blade soaked in the blood of innocents, lay unmoving by his side. He had loved both dearly. Even when the man he’d shared the last few years of his life had ripped the life clean from their throats, Rangvald still loved the soldier, though he could not understand why it had to be their children and him._

_“I have no lover” whispered the soldier grimly as he knelt in front of Rangvald. The soldier held out the ornate, jewelled dagger that Rangvald had given him as a gift for the day of their binding. “I do not know you” he continued, as the bloodied man began to weep inconsolably. Balder could not look his husband straight in the eye, for he knew that this was the ultimate betrayal. This was the ultimate sin in the eyes of the gods that had bound them together for supposedly all eternity, through life and death._

_However, what the Tower wanted to do was violate the very laws of nature, and to do that, both laws of gods and men had to be broken as well. Biting back tears and the sob that threatened to spill from his throat, Balder held the sharp blade to the exposed neck of his husband and lover, Rangvald. “Perhaps in another life I will…” he whispered. The dagger had never been used to spill blood since the day of their binding, but Balder had meticulously made sure that the edge would remain honed. “But in this one… I must forget.”_

_The disconsolate weeping of his husband was the last sound in the hushed silence that surrounded the ritual site. The two priceless artifacts had already been placed on their own pedestals, surrounded by the twelve altars upon which every law of the gods had been broken, and innocent blood spilt on consecrated ground. As he dragged the blade across the throat of the thing he loved most, he was unable to contain himself. He dropped the damnable thing and wept. His tears mingled with the blood that ran down the chest of his beloved, staining the ivory cloth._

_The sobbing of Rangvald turned to gurgling as his lungs filled with blood that made its way down his throat. Soon enough, the scholar was dead, throat slit by the very hands that had promised to protect him, thereby breaking the twelfth and most important law of the gods: ‘Protect that which you love most with all your life. Damned be you who with his own hands harms it.’ A dull boom resounded through the site, and Balder found himself laying his body over that of his husband and his children almost protectively, as though doing so would erase the sin that he had performed._

_“This is madness” whispered the one elder whom the soldier knew would be tied and bound nearby._

_“This will end the war. This will bring peace!” came the well-rehearsed response. There was no turning back. The Voice of the Tower had spoken._

\----------

_The grisly deeds done, the ritual completed, the two seemingly-harmless flowers began to hum with energy as the warlocks of the Tower channelled the suffering, the pain, and the ire of the gods into the Coldsnap and the Radiance. Both ancient artifacts were kept under volcanic glass bells so inky dark that nothing but the light that they radiated could be seen. It was madness to try and behold the beauty of either artifact. They were so far beyond mortal comprehension, that setting sight to either in its true form, for even the briefest of moments, would bring irreversible insanity._

_Nevertheless, the artifacts began to glow, and everyone in the area of the ritual, could feel the very fabric of reality itself distorting. Waves of primal power coursed through the air, rolling through the sands and crashing into every still-living individual that was in the vicinity. Balder stood from the pedestal where he had gently laid his husband to rest in death’s sleep. There was only one reason that he had ever agreed to do all that the Tower had asked him to do in order to save the world as they knew it. He was to die as well that day, and with him his sins._

_He would never live with himself, not after what he had done to the men and women on the twelve pedestals that surrounded the two artifacts. As he stood in the space between the two plinths that supported the obsidian bells, he could feel eyes on him. They were blank. Dead. He knew as much, but they were also accusing. His husband. His children. Tyr — though the youth was still alive, merely unresponsive. No. The only reason he agreed was because he would not have to live with himself and all that he had done that day._

_At the warlocks’ signal, the soldier drew his sword and raised it to the sun, the steel gleaming in the harsh bright daylight. With one deft motion, he plunged the sword right between his eyes. There was only one way to kill a man instantly, only one way to satisfy the brutal requirements of what they were about to do: destroy the seat of the soul. The brain. That was exactly what Balder did. He was dead before his hands ever left the hilt of his massive claymore. His mouth would forever remain open on the last syllable of the last words he ever said: “Forgive me.”_

_The ritual took on a life of its own, and finally, Tyr found his voice. The boy screamed. The high-pitched sound full of agony ripped through the desert sands. It was silenced soon enough, but only because the hair crumbled from his flesh, his flesh melted from his bones, and the bones turned to ash that sailed through the air and gathered in the space between the two artifacts. A guttural battlecry rose from the surrounding desert, and the hitherto unnoticed army raised its banners._

_A golden sun on a field of blazing white._

_It was the sovereign crest of Lycc, and it was under that banner that the fate of Old Vamara would be forever decided. With a mighty roar, the Lycceni charged through the sand, throwing up blinding, choking clouds that obscured the sun for those that stood on the shifting dunes. They ran through the still-chanting warlocks, hoping to sever the magic that the ritual had called into existence. As the acolytes of the Tower fell one by one to the enemy, the morale of the attackers rose ever higher. They had won. They had conquered the Tower. The war was won!_

_Only, because of the ignorance of the powerful and the megalomania of the ruling monarch, there would be no side that won the war between Old Vamara and its rebels. Most egregious sin and suffering had brought into existence the single most dangerous thing that existed in the mortal realm, and it had been ripped free from its bonds by those who did not know better. The warlocks had been keeping the magic stable, making sure that nothing too dramatic happened. With them dead, there was no turning back._

_The door had been flung open to the bloodiest chapter in all of history. The damage had already been done. While the throng of soldiers celebrated in the middle of the circle of the ritual, they failed to notice that the ritual had already begun and was well on its way to completion. If anything, they had only managed to make matters worse. They had destabilized the magic by killing the ones keeping it all in check. The fruit of their folly became almost-immediately clear. The obsidian bells exploded into countless tiny pieces, each one shard as sharp as the most honed steel blade._

_The soldiers nearest dropped instantly dead to the sands, bleeding from innumerable puncture wounds. All celebration stopped. Even the wind stopped its mighty howling as the men injured by the explosions fell face-first into the sands, unmoving. For the briefest moment, both Radiance and Coldsnap were visible in their full glory for everyone to see. And it was indeed everyone that saw. In an instant, an entire company of men, jubilant in their perceived victory, went insane._

_Men wailed and screamed and gnashed their teeth as they began to claw at their eyes to dispel the evils that had been put there by the warping of their mortal minds. None of them saw both artifacts vanish into brilliant bursts of light, icy-blue for the Coldsnap and brilliant gold for the Radiance. The two artifacts returned to their vault in the Tower. At the very least, the elders had thought it fit to take precaution that should the containment for the priceless, ageless artifacts fail, that they would return to the vault where they were safe._

_Men that had heard the celebratory cry of victory, but not the screaming as things went wrong, continued to flock to the ritual site. There they were met with a horrid sight of self-inflicted carnage that left them rooted to where they stood. Their comrades that had only mere moments past been celebrating were strewn about, mangled, mutilated, amputated. The sands were soaked with blood. Those that were still alive clawed with futility at their eyes to gouge away the horrors even as they screamed in agony._

_A mighty scream filled the air as all of a sudden, the fabric of reality, the veil between worlds was ripped to shreds. The sound was unlike anything that anyone had ever experienced. It was loud, and it was jarring, and it had the force to shatter teeth. The wound began as something no larger than a man’s hand, but it soon grew out of control, stopping only when it stretched in length from one side of the circle of pedestals to the other. The men stood there stunned, not knowing what to do about what they had just witnessed. It was on that day that the very first blademanes crossed over into the world that humanity occupied. Where once there had only been Upperworld creatures, there were now others. Unwelcome guests._

_The men of Lycc never stood a chance._

\----------

Jack returned to full consciousness, his hands clawing at his throat. He had been there for a moment, experienced every single ounce of physical and emotional anguish experienced by those that died on that fateful day so long ago. The farmboy gasped for breath, feeling the warm trickle of blood down his arm and down his chest. He had gouged himself deep enough to draw blood, and his pain joined the suffering of those that came before, that gave their lives because of the greatest folly of mankind.

The platinum-haired young man staggered to his feet, ignoring the open and bleeding wounds in his ethereal flesh. He had to be strong. The pain was enough. He understood the cost of the war that had shaken the world to its core. He understood the price that had been paid so that the rift would be opened. He shuddered, remembering the revolting horrors he had just witnessed. Nevertheless, Jack knew he could not afford to dwell on the suffering of those that came before for too long. He had a purpose, and he was going to pursue that purpose, the consequences be damned.

Kristoff, Glaise, and the blademanes were all lying on the ground. Their eyes were squeezed shut, their limbs drawn in toward their bodies, their entire forms, twitching. It seemed as though they were all going through the same ordeal as Jack. He could only hope that they could recover much the same way that he did.

The farmboy looked around. The mist had dissipated, and in the middle of the cavernous room hung the rift. Through it, he could see, as though through water, a much brighter vision of the same place he stood in. The sand was not soaked in blood. The walls did not seem so daunting. Light graced every inch of the place from torches hanging from brackets in the stonework.

“Turn back.” The voice startled Jack, and he spun around, finding himself face-to-face with a red-haired man dressed in fine white clothing with red and gold trim. He looked well-kept. The farmboy had to wonder how this other man was in the Middleworlds with clothes. Neither he nor Kristoff seemed to have been able to keep theirs. He also wondered how the other man looked so… corporeal. It was as though he was in the Middleworlds in flesh and bone.

“You will not find your prince on the other side.” The platinum narrowed his eyes at the stranger. How did he know that Jack was looking for Elian? “You will find only death.” The farmboy balled his fists at his sides. There was no way that this man would stop him from crossing the Rift back to the Upperworld. He had come too far. The blademanes that helped him had lost too much. The farmboy did not want their sacrifice to be in vain.

“But I will be back in the Upperworld!” Jack took one step forward, eyes blazing with anger and determination. The words he spat were full of challenge. He would not be turned away by one man. He was the Coldsnap. He had authority in the Middleworlds. He had _power_ in the Middleworlds. No matter how resplendent the garb, he would not let himself be turned away after going through so much trouble in order to get there. Unfortunately for the farmboy, the other man _also_ had power in the Middleworlds.

“Only death.” The stranger repeated. Fiery red hair seemed to catch fire as the other man raised his arms. Before the platinum could react, he was thrown back by an invisible force, right into the middle of his still-writhing friends. Without warning, the rift, the chamber, and the whole world around Jack and his companions vanished into swirling motes of flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry 'bout that, loves. I forgot to put up the chapter! I got too carried away with the solangelo fandom, I suppose.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this first volume of Coldsnap. I don't know when I'll start writing the others, but before that, I have to get over the solangelo bug for Percy Jackson. I'd love if you read my other fics, though.
> 
> Once things have settled down, I'll start writing Coldsnap again. It's too big a story to just abandon. Anyway. I hope you like this chapter. <3.


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